Lies
by sss979
Summary: As the team settles into life at Stockwell's compound, boundaries need to be set and walls need to be built around the things that really matter.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

**April, 1987**

This wasn't happening.

Jessica hadn't slept. She hadn't even tried. Pacing in her room hadn't helped, and eventually she'd turned to curling in a corner of the sofa while wrapped in a shirt that still smelled like him. That didn't help either. Finally, she moved to the back porch with a cigarette and bottle of wine, then back inside when she began to shiver from the combination of exhaustion and the cool night air. The tears barely stopped, but she still had hope.__

Face had been through difficult situations before. Arrest, capture, _torture._ He always made it through. He wasn't alone; he had his team. She knew from personal experience that the team, as a whole, was amazing. Surely, they had been through worse than this. They were strong, and brilliant. They would find a way out.

She didn't know Hannibal very well, but she knew his reputation. If there was an escape to be planned, he would plan it. If there was any chance, he would take it. And fate had always smiled on him. He wouldn't just go quietly to an execution. If anything, he would go down fighting. They all would. The fact that the news reports hadn't mentioned anything to the effect of escape attempts just meant that he was choosing his moment. He had to be choosing his moment. He wouldn't let this happen. Holding tightly to the neck of the now-empty wine bottle on the counter - the one Face had left here last time he'd come for dinner - she dropped her head forward and let the tears fall.

"Mom?"

She swallowed hard as she picked her head up. She couldn't let the kids see her like this. She needed to be strong for them. After all, they were losing someone important to them, too. _Not losing,_ she reminded herself. He would get out of this. Somehow, he would escape. He _had _to escape. He'd promised he would be back in just a few days. She hadn't even said good-bye...

"What can I do for you, James?" she asked quietly, staring at the cabinets right in front of her. She didn't want to look at him. She couldn't. She knew she would burst into tears all over again.

"I was just wondering if..." His voice was hesitant and unsure. He paused, and took a deep, steadying breath. "Did you sleep at all?"

She shut her eyes and dropped her head forward again. "No," she admitted softly.

"Yeah, me neither."

Another lingering pause. What could she say to him? What could make this better? Nothing short of hearing the details of their spectacular escape would make this okay. Then there would be tears of joy and laughter and echoes of, "I knew they would find a way!"

"Heather and I, we wanted to know if... well, if you were going to watch. The TV, I mean. 'Cause..." A deep, shaky breath. "Well, 'cause it's eight o'clock. And Channel 6 said they'd be following all morning."

She felt sick. Was it really eight o'clock? That would explain the amount of light filtering in through the windows. Jessica took a breath, put her shoulders back, and released her grip on the wine bottle, turning toward her son. The sight of him damn near took her breath away. God, he looked so much like Face...

"It'll be okay," she choked. She couldn't stand seeing that look of pain and worry in his eyes.

James forced a smile, and took a step toward her, hugging her tight. She almost couldn't hold back the tears as she returned the embrace.

"It'll be okay."

Heather was sitting on the edge of the sofa with a cigarette in one hand and the other nervously clenching and releasing over one of the throw pillows. She glanced up, away from the TV, but her eyes immediately went back to it. The blond reporter on the screen had been following the story since it broke. No one knew just where the A-Team was being held now, so she was still reporting from Fort Owen. With a faltering breath out, Jessica sat down beside her daughter and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table with a shaking hand.

"Sentence was expected to be carried out this morning at eight o'clock, and we are currently awaiting confirmation." The live shot reporter was talking comfortably, if seriously, to the camera - an unscripted commentary on the events of the morning. Last meal, last rites delivered by a priest who declined comment for the cameras, and a repeat of the information they all knew right now. Charges, trial, and conviction. Sentence and... escape. Where was the news about the escape?

Jessica looked at the clock. Nine minutes after eight. Was he alive? Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears, she could barely hear the reporter's rambling. Heather lit another cigarette. James stood, and began pacing. Jessica watched him for a moment, and watched the TV. He had to still be alive. Her heart wouldn't be beating at all if he wasn't...

The reporter paused, nodded to someone off camera, and took a deep breath as she faced Jessica with a solemn expression. Jess stood. She didn't know why. She couldn't breathe. This was it. It was like waiting for the verdict of the trial, only so much worse. There was no altering this verdict. There was no going back.

_Please, God, just let me have five more minutes with him..._

"We've just received confirmation that the execution of the infamous A-Team has been carried out."

Jessica heard nothing else. She saw nothing else. She felt hands on her as Heather stood. She turned away from her instinctively, but James was on her other side. His arms were around her before she could figure out what to say, what to do. No words, no comfort. James held her tight, and she clung to him as she sobbed uncontrollably. Heather's arms were around them both. She could hear the weeping of her children as she let go of all hope and sank into utter despair.


	2. Chapter One

**PART ONE**

**CHAPTER ONE**

The hotel that Stockwell had arranged for them to be escorted to was not entirely unpleasant. The fact that their rooms - and their phones - had all been bugged was a new concept to contend with. A quick sweep had turned up four listening devices in each of the rooms. The man was nothing if not thorough.

"The place is crawling, Hannibal," Face said with the sort of disgust he couldn't have hidden if he'd tried.

"He never said it wouldn't be," Hannibal answered with a shrug. "Given how closely he's been monitoring us since we came back from dealing with Sulé, I suspect we're going to be under something very similar to house arrest once the dust all settles."

"House arrest?" Face sounded equally disgusted by that.

"House arrest is just one step away from prison," Frankie mumbled, sitting on the bed with his chin on his hand.

"It's worse than prison," Face corrected. "Even in prison, we had some measure of privacy."

"Yeah," BA growled. "Who does this guy think he is?"

Hannibal sighed. "We all know this is not an ideal situation. But I want to see what this guy has to offer before we make any decisions."

"What kind of decisions do we have to make?" Frankie asked, defeated. "In case you didn't notice, he's got us over a barrel on this."

"He thinks he does," Hannibal granted. The fact that he would continue to believe that no matter what they said here was the only reason he had no trouble saying it. Knowing that Stockwell - or someone he'd appointed - was listening to every word made Hannibal cautious of his wording. But he wasn't saying anything Stockwell didn't already know.

"We're here at will," Hannibal continued. "To see what, exactly, he's bringing to the table. If the offer's not convincing, his listening devices and guards aren't going to keep us here."

Frankie frowned deeply. "Not going to keep us here?" he repeated. "As in, running away? 'Cause, man, I _need _that pardon."

"You think that's why he's keeping Murdock separated?" Face asked flatly.

"It's entirely possible. He can block off our access to escape routes in the public sector. But Murdock gives us a clear advantage."

"Escape routes!" There was something close to panic in Frankie's voice. "What, you mean like flee the country? I can't do that!"

"Well, if _we _do that," Face answered curtly, "you don't have to come."

Frankie stood, a bit shaky, and paced towards the window, switching places with Face who sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. "This whole thing sounds to me like a bad deal," he mumbled. "We're _in _this mess because of him. Now he's going to do us some great favor and get us out of it? _If _we live that long?"

"He ain't been straight with us yet, Hannibal."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, considering that. "We can look at how this situation came about and find every reason why this man isn't worthy of our trust."

"He sure doesn't trust _us_, that's for damn sure."

Hannibal continued steadily, ignoring Face. "I'm not going to _overlook _everything that's happened up to this point. But I'm more interested in where we're _going _than where we've been. Right now, we have two very simple options: we stay or we leave. We need to evaluate which of those two options is best for the team as a whole. Because we can't change our minds six months down the road, when things get tough. And either way we choose, that _is _going to happen."

"So how we gonna evaluate?" BA demanded.

"Well, the first thing we're going to do," Hannibal said firmly, "is have a look at those contracts. And you can be assured that I'm not about to put my signature to anything that's going to be detrimental to this team."

*X*X*X*

Stockwell was waiting ever-so-patiently behind the hotel room desk as the four of them stepped into the room, escorted by two men in cheap grey suits. Interesting that even on the go, Stockwell so much felt the need to conduct his business from behind a desk that he'd pulled it away from the wall so he could sit behind it.

"Gentlemen, please be seated." He nodded his head towards some less-than-comfortable looking chairs and a rather drab sofa. "We have very important business to take care of this morning and I'd like to see to it."

"Nice of you to join us," Hannibal said as he sat down comfortably, not the least bit intimidated. Frankie sat down, too. Face and BA remained standing for now.

"What are we doing here, Stockwell?" Hannibal demanded. "When you sent us off with your guard dogs, I was expecting more permanent accommodations."

"Your permanent accommodations are being readied as we speak." Stockwell smiled. "And I think you'll like them very much."

"I already don't like them," BA said roughly.

"You may yet change your mind," Stockwell responded, his voice full of confidence. He was still smiling as he sat back in his chair and straightened his sleeves. "I aim to please, Gentlemen, so long as you do things my way."

BA growled. Hannibal was unmoved. "Well, we're here now," Hannibal said, lighting a cigar. "So what do you want?"

Face glanced around the room, and noted the closed door off to the right - probably the suite's bedroom. He positioned himself so he could see it from the corner of his eye. Just because Stockwell liked playing mind games didn't mean he wouldn't have a back-up plan.

"I thought you might be anxious to review your contracts," Stockwell said with a smile that looked almost reptilian. "So that we can get right to business once your new home is ready."

Hannibal's answering grin remained in place. "Oh, I'm always waiting on the edge of my seat for a suicide mission, Stockwell."  
Face was silent. What he'd really like was to get out of here, shake Stockwell's goons, and find a nice, quiet out-of-the-way place where he could be reasonably sure Stockwell hadn't bugged the phones, and call Jessica. She needed to know he was alright. God, what she must be going through...

"Well, on to business then."

Right on cue, the blond woman who seemed to be an assistant or secretary of some sort entered the room with a manila folder. She set it on the desk before she took up a position standing just behind his chair.

"These are you contracts, Gentlemen." He opened the folder, then leaned across the desk to hand the papers to them. Face stepped forward and grabbed both his and BA's, handing it over to him. BA avoided eye contact as he took it.

"Look them over carefully," Stockwell instructed, leaning back in his chair again. "I want you to be fully aware of the terms of our agreement."

Face's eyes lowered to the paper, but he couldn't really read it. Damn it, this was _important_! And yet, he couldn't concentrate for the life of him. Instead, he was thinking the same thoughts he'd been thinking for the past week. He remembered how badly Jessica had taken it when he'd been arrested, and the threat of a twenty year sentence was hanging over his head. How much worse would it be when she thought he was never coming back? He hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to her...

"One hundred missions?" Hannibal's voice interrupted his thoughts. Thank God for Hannibal. He would make sure their asses were covered even if Face couldn't manage it right now. "That sounds like a hell of a lot, Stockwell. Just how long are you planning on keeping us here?"

"Well, according to my calculations," Stockwell answered calmly, "one mission per week makes the length of your contract approximately two years."

"Two years!" Frankie's jaw fell open. "Two years? I can't do two years! I've gotta get back!"

"You can do two years with me, Mr. Santana, or twenty in the federal penitentiary. The choice is yours."

Face's eyes shifted briefly to Frankie. He looked like he was trying not to hyperventilate, nervously shifting in his seat. In the back of his mind, Face couldn't help but wonder how long he was going to last before he ended up shot. That consideration wasn't any insult to him - at least, not a personal one - so much as a conditioned response. Suicide missions had a certain life expectancy. Hannibal beat the odds, but he did it by remaining very collected, and by the unconditional trust of his men. Frankie didn't look like the type who was going to last very long under those circumstances. He was too afraid to die. Face could see it in his eyes.

"Hey man." BA was glaring daggers at Stockwell. "One mission a week, that's a lot of missions."

"Especially when they're suicide missions," Hannibal agreed.

"The amount of _time _you spend in my employ may be flexible. The number of missions is not. As you recall, when I originally spoke to you about this arrangement, I said it would be a set number of missions." He nodded toward the papers. "Which you now have before you."

"This document doesn't say much about what _kind _of missions you want us to do."

Stockwell nodded. "That's because they may vary. I cannot guarantee what types of international incidents may come up over the next few years."

"International incidents?" Frankie asked. He was doing a poor job of hiding the fear behind a mask of sarcasm, but he was sure as hell trying.

"What kind of international incidents are you used to seeing?" Face asked, watching out of the corner of his eye as Hannibal grabbed a pen.

Stockwell smiled at him. "Suffice to say, they are on par with some of your more impressive missions in Vietnam."

BA growled. "This ain't Vietnam."

Face was quick to continue. "Yeah, in case you hadn't missed it, General, the war's over."

Stockwell was staring at BA, watching him as if he was an exhibit - something to be looked at and studied, but not at all something to care about on a personal level. "That conflict is over," Stockwell granted. "However, there are many more conflicts and disagreements around the globe that you will be utilized for."

"Well, I can guarantee what types of conflicts and disagreements _won't _come up, if we're signing these contracts," Hannibal said firmly.

Stockwell eyed Hannibal for a moment, then gestured for him to continue. Hannibal had already amended the contract, and set the pen down on top of it. This part was not up for debate.

"First of all, we're not at war. Unless we go to war, I reserve the right to refuse any order to kill any human being. That includes assassinations."

Stockwell hid his knowing smile behind his hand. The way he smiled like that made him look like a bad liar that couldn't keep a straight face. That couldn't be further from the truth; Face was sure of it. What the hell made him smile like that?

"I'd been informed of your... preference, in that regard. And there are enough conflicts in the world that it shouldn't be strictly necessary to send you on such missions."

Face lowered his eyes to the paper in his hands. It read simple enough. One hundred missions, each one to be signed off on by an agreement of all five of them. They would work as a team, not as individuals, so there would be no chance of two or three missions at the same time.

"There's also nothing in here about stand down," Hannibal pointed out. "When we ran so called 'impressive missions' in Vietnam, we were guaranteed a certain number of days off when we came back. And we were also guaranteed R&R, if we ever _wanted_ it."

"Vietnam was a warzone and a continually high stress situation. You will hardly need a relaxing escape from the living arrangements I will provide you."

Hannibal smiled. "No matter how relaxing our new home may be, I think it's entirely probable that we'll be in need of an escape from _you _from time to time."

Stockwell kept that damn smirk plastered on his face. "This is not the Army, Colonel. And, as you said, we are not at war. I have very little control over _when_ conflicts and dangers will arise globally. When the situation demands it, you will be sent. And, of course, the sooner you complete your missions, the sooner you will be free to live your own lives."

"Well, we're all very anxious to put this behind us," Hannibal replied. "But I won't run my men into the ground, either."

"Your missions will be needs-based," Stockwell said. "I do not have another army to move in your place. If I tried to assure you time off, I would be lying."

"Oh, I'm betting you have plenty of other operatives in the field."

"As I said before, they are not operatives that I can give assignments like these. It's why I need you."

"What did you do before?" Face challenged. Stockwell looked up at him. "It's not as if these international incidents have been waiting patiently until we came along."

"And it's not like they're going to stop after a hundred missions, either," Hannibal added.

Stockwell paused, glancing back and forth between them both. "Well, you're not the first team I've had working for me," he granted. "However, with everything I've heard about you, I have great hope that you will be the first to last all the way through the terms of our agreement."

"Wait, wait a minute," Frankie interrupted. "First to last?"

Stockwell studied him impassively. "They are missions I cannot give to other operatives."

"They're suicide missions," Face said bluntly. "There's really no need to dance around that, Stockwell."

"Suicide missions!" Frankie was out of his seat and pacing, both hands pushing back through his hair. "Man, I can't do this."

"That is your term," Stockwell clarified. "Not mine."

"Relax, Frankie," Hannibal warned.

"I can't do this," Frankie continued to mutter under his breath, pacing back and forth.

Face ducked his head under the pretense of further studying the contract so Stockwell wouldn't be able to see his expression. Stockwell, he'd wager, would be plenty willing to strap the explosive to their backs and watch the pieces fly just as soon as he no longer had a use for them. Anything he said to the contrary was just a con. If that was an end that Frankie feared, he had every right to be afraid.

Stockwell was watching Hannibal calmly, waiting for a verdict, a reaction, a signature. Face's gaze followed his, settling on Hannibal as he slowly, calmly considered. He knew the team would follow him, whatever he decided, just the way they had followed him a thousand times before. It was his call to make. And Face didn't envy him the pressure of sorting out all the details before he put his name to that contract.

But like everything else, he handled it calmly. His eyes never left Stockwell. Face watched the stare down with a growing sense of dread as Stockwell raised a brow and waited expectantly for a challenge or compliance - one of the two. Face had a feeling he would see this battle of wills many times over the next few years. Especially if Hannibal reached for that pen.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Let me make something very clear to you, General."

Face wasn't used to hearing that cold, dead tone in Hannibal's voice anymore. But throughout the trial, and the last few days, he was hearing it more and more often. He straightened instinctively as Hannibal rose to his feet.

"When you came to visit me in that prison cell and gave your word, I took it that meant something to you. So maybe you'll understand what it means to me to put my name on the bottom of this paper. You can put a clause in here about reasonable down time, and you and I can discuss later what "reasonable" means. Or you can sit there and give me this bullshit runaround that I've heard a hundred times from a hundred other commanding officers and every time I've told them the same thing. There is a certain way that my team operates. And it _only_ works in that way. You can control our missions. But I control my team. And that is going to be abundantly clear on _any_ orders that I sign. Including these."

He tossed the folder, with the unsigned paper inside, back on the desk. Face smiled as he and BA followed suit. Frankie was too busy pacing to even notice.

"My team reports to me," Hannibal said firmly. "I report to you. You ever try to go around my back and give orders to my men without discussing them with me first, and this agreement is null and void. I made note of that on page two. And for your information, we'll live in your house like that contract says. But we reserve the right to... remodel where appropriate. We'll be sure to paint the walls white again before we leave."

Stockwell's only response to that was a raised brow. For a long moment, the two of them stared each other down. Finally, Stockwell gave a slight smirk and the faintest sigh. "There is no need for dramatic demonstrations, Colonel. I have no qualms about specifying chain of command."

Picking up the pen on his deck, Stockwell went to the last page and added the clause, verbatim. As he finished, he finished writing and smiled up at Hannibal. "Of course we know that last bit will not happen."

"You're asking us to sign an agreement that specifies we will live on that premises for the next two years at least. And we haven't even seen it."

"You'll just have to take my word for it that it will be adequately comfortable."

Face tucked his hands back into his pockets and resisted the urge to fidget. In a perfect world, they'd be able to fast-forward through this territory marking process, get what they want, sign, and get this hell over with. In a perfect world, he would already be on the other side of all of it...

Hannibal looked away from Stockwell to exchange glances with his team. "Anything else we need to establish right up front, guys?"

"Yeah," BA said roughly. "The part about no contact. With the outside world. I'm makin' a phone call to my momma. You don't like that, that's too bad."

"Wait a minute," Frankie said. He'd stopped pacing, but the worry was still in his voice and written all over his face. "You said that my father's pension would be restored. How do I know it has been if I can't call him?"

"I can arrange to have copies of your father's bank statements delivered to you, Mr. Santana."

Stockwell turned back to Hannibal, his face a mask of neutrality. He spoke to Hannibal in spite of the fact that he was addressing the concerns of the others. "You are in control of your team, Colonel, and I am in control of keeping you from getting arrested. Therefore, the no contact rule remains in effect."

BA growled, leaning forward to pound his fists on the desk. "I'm callin' my momma!"

Stockwell looked sharply to BA. "Your mother believes you to be dead. Given the nature of the missions you will be doing, it may be best if she continues to believe that."

"Take it easy, BA," Hannibal said calmly. His eyes never left Stockwell. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"I'm sorry, Colonel; the risks are too great. There can be no contact with anyone outside of your team."

Frankie continued, raising his voice even as BA continued his growling. "My family doesn't know where I am!" he cried. "The papers didn't report _my _name. How am I supposed to just fall of the face of the earth to them? I need to call them."

Frankie quickly turned his back to Stockwell as the anger mixed with panic and frustration. Stockwell watched him with calm, patronizing amusement. "Mr. Santana, at this point, you are free to do as you wish. However, I must warn you. _If _you do contact anyone, then you will be on your own. There _is_ a federal warrant out for your arrest, and the case will be open and shut. Again, the choice is yours."

"Open and shut," Hannibal repeated, his voice cold. "Like a murder charge from Vietnam?"

_Touche, Hannibal._

Stockwell just looked at Hannibal with the same bland expression Face was getting to know and hate. Hannibal held his gaze steady. He didn't speak, didn't look away. Their eyes remained locked hard, neither one willing to submit. Stockwell held out a pen to Hannibal. "The choice is yours, too, Colonel."

"And every one of my men," Hannibal added, low. "You should know, Stockwell, there is no force on earth that could _compel _me to subject my men to your orders." Hannibal's tone was firm - hard and cold. "This is, and will remain a strictly at-will employment, and we'll get paid at the end of these hundred missions with our freedom. But if, at any time, one of my men decides it's not worth it and walks away from your bullshit, rescinds his 'voluntary indefinite status,' I will do everything within my power to get him to safety. And you can take it up with the FBI."

Stockwell frowned deeply. "The contract is for your entire team."

"The contract doesn't specify that," Hannibal clarified with a cold smile. "And if it did, that would be one more thing we'd have to change."

He took the pen, took the paper, and checked over Stockwell's additions before he signed the bottom of it, then left the pen flat on the paper and stepped back, eyes on Stockwell again. Face found himself staring at the paper on the desk with Hannibal's signature on it. He shut his eyes to block out the image as BA stepped forward hesitantly, and took the pen. He'd always known they would follow Hannibal right into hell. But somehow it made him sick to think of it.

As he heard the pen rest on the desk again, he opened his eyes and stared at it. Two signatures. His team. Even Frankie finally stepped forward and signed with a hand that was shaking just slightly. The moment of decision. Although it seemed the decision had already been made, the full ramifications of it were finally setting in. He'd signed his life away once, to the Army. That hadn't exactly ended well. And they were an institution, an ideal rather than a sick and twisted megalomaniac. Hannibal hadn't trusted Stockwell from the beginning. But he'd just signed his life over to him.

"Lieutenant?" Stockwell prodded.

Face blinked slowly, running his tongue over the inside of his teeth. Two years. A new suicide mission every week. Maybe it would be longer, but it definitely wouldn't be shorter. That was _if _he lived. By the very nature of "suicide mission" it was implied that he probably wouldn't. What did this guy have up his sleeve, anyway?

Face's eyes shifted briefly to Hannibal, and their gazes locked. Hannibal would understand if he walked away. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Even in Vietnam, he hadn't flinched when Boston withdrew his indefinite status paperwork and said, "I want to go home." There was plenty of money in hidden accounts. Face could be in the Netherlands or South Africa in twenty-four hours. He could call Jess. He knew for a fact that she'd drop everything to come and be with him. A new life, somewhere Stockwell would never find him no matter how hard he looked.

"It's your choice, Lieutenant," Hannibal said quietly, his voice as gentle as it ever got.

_I'm not leaving you._

The words didn't make it to his mouth, but they were immediately in his mind. They were there with such force and conviction that he was picking up the pen before he even realized what he was doing. Jessica would wait for him, and he would wait for her. He would live through this the same way he'd lived through Vietnam - by Hannibal's order and the grace of God. There were no guarantees in life even if he walked away. But the bottom line was that he wouldn't do that. He _couldn't _do that. He loved Jessica in a way that made his chest ache at the thought of not seeing her for two years. But he would sooner die himself than send his team to a suicide mission without him. It just wasn't going to happen. It would never happen, regardless of the risk. Without a sound, he signed at the bottom and dropped the pen on the desk.

Stockwell offered a beneficent smile as he took the pen and signed his name as well. "Excellent, gentlemen."

He placed the contract back in the folder and handed it over his shoulder to the woman who was still standing there silently. She was like part of the furniture - a part that watched everything and smirked from time to time.

"I will have Carla make copies for you all and deliver them to your rooms. Your more permanent housing should be ready in a day or two, and then we'll get right to work."

Face turned away, heading for the door. Frankie was a step behind him, too overwhelmed by everything that had just come out of that conversation to find actual words. But behind him, Face could hear BA's low voice as they stepped out of Stockwell's suite.

"I'm callin' my momma, Hannibal. She got a right to know."

"You'll get your chance, BA," Hannibal answered quietly. "But for right now, I need to you play along. If he decides to play hardball, we need to be ready."

"That's fine," BA said. "But I'm callin' my momma."

And Face, for his part, needed to find a safe way to get in touch with Jess.

*X*X*X*

"I spent ten years trying to get into Hollywood." Frankie's eyes were as distant as his tone, staring out the window at the sky. "When all this is over, any kind of contacts I have are going to be long gone. I'll never be able to get my career back together."

Hannibal watched him quietly, leaning back in the nearby chair with a cigar in his hand, eyes on the newest member of his team. The addition hadn't been intentional; not really. He'd liked Frankie well enough on the Hollywood set, and he'd brought him along to Spain as a mutually beneficial arrangement. They had needed large scale special effects; Frankie had needed some quick cash until he could find another job. Hannibal had never intended that Frankie's involvement would exceed that one, brief mission. Now he had to contend with the fact that he had another man on his team - one he had to learn and train and bond with from scratch.

And one he didn't truly trust.

Frankie didn't even have a military background to provide a common ground, or a basis for understanding the "us and them" mentality of the team. The team was a solid unit, singular in thought and purpose. Breaking through Frankie's sense of individuality was going to be one of the hardest damned things Hannibal had had to do in a long time. And looking at what he had to work with, he wasn't even sure he'd be able to do it. He didn't want to see Frankie killed in this charade - especially since the responsibility for his safety ultimately rested on Hannibal himself. But if he was honest, he wasn't sure just how long he expected him to last. Hannibal had seen a lot of boys die because of their inability to function as a coherent unit.

"I wouldn't worry about your career right now, Frank," Hannibal advised. "You've got enough on your plate with what's right in front of you."

"Like how my family has no idea what happened to me?" Frankie shot, still pacing. "Or how I have no idea what's going on with my dad? For all I know Stockwell could have him out on the street! That may not seem like a big deal to you, but it means a lot to me."

"Stockwell has nothing to gain by putting your dad on the street."

Frankie stared at him, open mouthed for a minute. Apparently, in all of Frankie's thoughts and worry, logic and calm reasoning got lost. No surprise - this was new territory for him.

"What was in it for him in the _first _place?" Frankie cried. "I was just doing my thing, same thing I always did, minding my own business. Next thing I know I got men in black suits and stretch limos making all sorts of threats."

Hannibal watched him quietly, letting him vent. Sooner or later, he'd ask a question that actually needed an answer.

"I never should've listen to him, Johnny. I get that. I try and make that right and now I got some soulless leech in a suit telling me I'm here for good. Why? What's the point of that? Why does he want _me_? I'm just a special effects guy!"

Hannibal waited until Frankie looked back up to finally give a short, honest answer. "I don't know."

"I keep waiting for the shoe to drop like he's gonna try to turn me against you guys again. But he doesn't need me to keep you guys. I'm a nobody."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. The thought had occurred to him. And he still considered it a possibility. But whether he attempted it or not didn't really make a difference. The seeds had already been sown. The _threat_ of it happening was enough.

"You know, Frank, someone told me once there are two emotions that govern the human race. One is love and the other is fear. You lead men by one or the other. He controls through fear. Whether it's your fear of what will happen to your father - or any other point of vulnerability you might have - or my fear of having a man on my team that I can't trust."

The look Frankie gave him was almost hurt. "You don't have to worry about that."

"I hope not, Frankie," Hannibal answered quietly. "Because I can't have a man on my team that I don't trust. It doesn't work that way. You're either with us or you're not. And you need to determine right now which you are. Because there is a pretty good chance he'll come back to you and see if he can still use you like that. And he may even up the stakes and use something even bigger than your father. When that happens, you're going to be the one who has to trust _me_."

Frankie stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "When that happens, I'll tell him what I should've told him in the first place. He can go to hell."


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

"I..." Words were so hard to form. Jessica closed her eyes and tried again. "I need to take a few days leave."

"Well, I'm glad to see you; I've been worried. Please, come in."

The office looked like any other administrator's workspace. She entered without thought, without feeling, and sat down in the chair he gestured to.

"Is this your daughter?"

Jessica stared. Daughter?

"Yes, I'm Heather."

Oh. Right. Heather was with her. She'd almost forgotten. She watched the two of them shake hands, and Heather turned to her. "I'll wait outside, Mom."

Jessica nodded, and the girl was gone.

"In eight years, you've never missed a day of work without calling until last week."

She was staring at the name plaque on the desk. Richard Cavalier. Her supervisor.

"We haven't been able to get a hold of you. We were really concerned. What's going on?"

She drew in a deep, slow breath. She knew these lines. She'd memorized them and rehearsed them with Heather all the way here. "A very close friend of mine died," she said flatly. "It was very sudden and unexpected. I didn't get to say goodbye. I need a few days leave."

"Well, you've certainly got enough vacation time saved up that it shouldn't be a problem. If you need longer than..."

His voice turned to white noise as she concentrated for a long moment on rearranging the letters in his name to make them spell other words. Card. Radical. Vertical? No... no T.

"... considered grief counseling?"

She looked up again and stared blankly for a moment. She had no idea how to answer that, or what the question even was. She took in a deep breath, and let it out slow. "Thank you. If you call my house, please speak to my son or daughter." She stood. "They'll make sure I get the message."

"I'll do that." His voice was full of genuine concern. But Jessica was past the point of caring what he - or anyone else - thought. She turned towards the door.

Just outside, in the hallway, she saw Heather. "Everything alright?"

"Yes. I think so." Why did her voice sound so flat and dead to her ears? Why could she not quite focus her eyes, or hold a coherent thought?

Down the hall and around the corner. She'd been trying to watch where she was going. The person coming the other way was not. "Oh!"

Jessica very nearly stumbled, a quick rush of adrenaline bringing her world into perspective briefly. The woman she'd just run into was familiar, and was carrying a large arrangement of red roses. "Jessica! Oh my God, how are you? Are you okay?"

She had an answer for that, but before she could recall the line from memory, the woman was talking again.

"I was just going down to Richard's office because these flowers were delivered for you this afternoon and we had no idea how to get them to you."

She stared for a long moment as the woman held out the arrangement with both hands in front of her. "Here. You look like you need these, too."

As Jessica took the flowers, Heather took the card, read it, and looked up with a furrowed brow.

"Who?" Jessica asked, unable to articulate any further than that.

Heather didn't answer. "Do you know who delivered these flowers? What company?"

"Uh... no. Not sure."

"Did he say anything?"

The woman shrugged. "Delivery for Jessica Summers; that's about it."

Jessica shifted the flowers to one hand and reached for the card, forcing her eyes into focus as she read it.

_I'm going to be a little more than four days late this time. I love you. - Your Lieutenant _

Even muddled, her memory immediately flashed to the reference. Four days late. He'd been four days in military police custody the morning after they'd finally made love for the first time. When he'd escaped, he showed up at her work with a dozen red roses and an apology for being four days late. She stared at the words, not speaking, hardly thinking. Who would say something like that? Who would _know _to say something like that?

Maybe more importantly, what kind of a cruel joke was this that made her heart break all over again, and sent her sobbing into the arms of her daughter.

*X*X*X*

Murdock had been out of the VA more than he'd been in it for the past several weeks. That hadn't been an accident; it had been very calculated. The last thing he'd wanted was to be medicated - or worse, going through withdrawal - when the team needed him at his best.

Now that the danger - all of it - was past, he walked right through the front door, up to the third floor, and straight to Richter's office just as any normal and sane person would walk into any office where they rightfully belonged.

The blinds on the door were open. Richter was alone. Good. That meant he wouldn't be interrupting anything. Not that he would've minded interrupting. This couldn't wait. A knock on the door, for the sake of courtesy, and he opened it without waiting for the invite. With a broad smile, he stepped inside and closed it behind him.

"Hey, Doc."

The look on Richter's face was priceless. It was not out of the ordinary for Murdock to simply pop by when he wanted something. But this was a little different.

"Murdock," he greeted, carefully. He had that look Face got when he was trying to figure someone out. "You're about six weeks late for your session."

Murdock grinned. "Good to see you too." He plopped down on the couch that he knew so well. Many, many hours had been spent on this couch over the past... wow. It had been almost fifteen years. "Did you miss me?"

"'Miss you' is a bit of an understatement."

Richter was wary of the energy and excitement. Murdock understood why. This man had seen him manic as often as he'd seen him depressed. He'd also seen him at his absolute worst - both on and off the medication. Given that the news reports were all heralding the death of the A-Team, the symptoms didn't match the cause.

"Where have you been? As I understand it, you've been in and out of here so fast I haven't even been able to schedule a meeting with you."

Murdock put on his serious face. At least, he tried. He couldn't quite contain the smile. "I've been finding myself, Doc."

Richter merely raised a brow and stood, heading to his filing cabinet. He was finding Murdock's chart. Murdock looked away and put his arms under his head as he lay back, staring up at the familiar ceiling.

"With all of the stuff that's happened lately, I just needed to get away."

"That's understandable. It's been a very stressful time. Though I might have preferred if you didn't play touch and go with your medication in the meantime."

"Well, there wouldn't have been any touch if I could've gotten away with it."

It had been a calculated risk to return to the VA during the trial, so that the prosecution could call him to the stand. He couldn't very well be AWOL from the psych ward if his basic plan was to act very much like a mental patient. But he hadn't been at the VA for very long. It was long enough for them to check his medication levels and realize he was completely dry. It was long enough for them to give him pills, which he cheeked, and injections, which he couldn't. It wasn't long enough for them to check his levels again and find out he was missing some of that medication, or that he needed more of it.

Once the verdict came back, he wouldn't have returned to the VA at all if they hadn't picked him up and forcibly brought him back the day before the execution. He wasn't quite sure how, but he had a feeling that was somehow Stockwell's doing. In any case, it that had lasted all of an hour - not long enough to get the orders to medicate him. Or, rather, some idea of what to medicate him _with_, since the previous meds didn't seem to be working to contain him. The straightjacket was precursor to the fact that they would've drugged him to the gills if they'd had the chance.

By that time, it was pretty obvious that he wasn't going to be able to keep Stockwell, or Frankie, out of his plan to rescue the guys. The last thing he'd wanted was to be medicated while dealing with the megalomaniacal bastard who'd put his friends in front of a firing squad. Or going through withdrawal. He'd needed all of his functions fully functioning. He'd left the VA again without so much as stopping by to say hello to Richter.

Some of the humor dropped from Murdock's voice as he glanced back. "Those nurses follow your orders, by the way, to get me doped back up as quickly as possible."

"Might I remind you, Murdock, that you're the one who insists that you need all of this medication." Richter sounded less than pleased.

Murdock shrugged. "Well, it's kinda hard to get the bills paid if I'm not taking any of it."

That response brought Dr. Richter up short. It wasn't typical. It was almost... honest. What either one of them knew was irrelevant if none of it was spoken. Murdock had carefully maintained, for some time, that he had any number of mental disorders - and had mimicked them beautifully. As long as he kept up the charade, Richter kept up his end. He'd never really liked it, but far be it from any doctor to refuse treatment to a patient who was exhibiting all the signs of mental illness... and just so happened to be an in-patient in the VA psych ward.

"Actually, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about." Murdock sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and looking across the desk at Richter with a grin. "I found out something about myself I've just gotta tell you."

His file was by now spread out on the desk. Murdock had never seen it and he didn't really care to. His eyes were on Richter, who was watching him with a look of both curiosity and worry.

"By all means," the doctor invited.

Murdock took a deep, calming breath and put his shoulders back, holding his head up high. "I discovered that I am perfectly sane." He smiled as he held Richter's gaze steadily. "Congratulations, Doc. You cured me!"

Murdock had never seen his shrink look quite so startled. He took a moment to pull it together, and scribbled some notes before he finally answered, haltingly. "Well, Murdock, that's quite a statement. How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

Murdock smirked. He wanted to stand up, to pace. But he was already aware of how this looked. And it would just be absolutely ironic if the one time Richter _did _believe he was having a genuine, unmedicated manic episode was the one time he didn't want him to. He needed to remain as calm, collected, and coherent as possible and not let his excitement get in the way.

"Well, see, it started when they called me to testify at that trial. You remember that, right? 'Cause you had to sign my release form."

Richter nodded. "I remember."

"I was on that stand and I was thinking, 'I can remember this stuff.' What I couldn't remember before, you know? And I was just fine talking about it. No blackouts or flashbacks or panic attacks. And that's why I didn't come back."

He paused to wait for a response, but Richter didn't give one. Instead, after a long pause, he gestured for Murdock to continue. "Go on."

"Well, I got to thinkin'... I functioned just fine. Off the meds, my head just got so much clearer!" He turned back to Richter, beaming. "I think you maybe were right all along. I was just really good at this. Subconsciously, you know? I was convinced that I was crazy. But I'm not. I'm totally, completely sane!"

To say that Richter was surprised was an understatement. He was staring at him as if he'd just grown another head. Murdock couldn't blame him; this was out of left field. "That's... some goal to have achieved," Richter said carefully. "I can't say I'm not surprised."

"Why? You were the one who was telling me for so long that it's time to start facing reality."

"Yes, and you've fought me every step of the way. Then, a terrible thing happens to your friends and you disappear for weeks and suddenly return to proclaim that you're cured."

"I am cured." The smile finally dropped, completely, as Murdock's eyes turned more serious. His tone followed. "And now I have to prove it. And that's why I'm here. Because for that, I'm going to need your help."

"I'd love to help," Richter said. "But something seems to be missing for me here."

Murdock chuckled. "Oh, come on. I'm sure you've got tons of notes and theories in there," he gestured to the folder, "that will only be confirmed by my willingness to embrace reality."

"It's not my ability to write up a report I'm worried about," Richter said seriously. "It's _you_. Personally."

Murdock looked away.

"You've suffered a terrible loss. And by all indications, you don't seem to be taking it very well."

Murdock was quiet for a moment. If he could've told Richter the whole truth, right then, he would've. But Stockwell had made the rules clear - no contact with the outside world - and Hannibal was playing along. Murdock could guess that had something to do with the fact that the news media had gone so far as to describe the burial of bodies that were not there. There'd been a cover up. Stockwell didn't want them turning into an urban legend. And while Murdock couldn't care less what Stockwell wanted, he respected Hannibal's willingness to go along.

"Murdock, we've seen a whole lot over the years. We've seen the good and the bad. I respect you, and your honesty. But you need to realize that it will take more than just convincing me you're cured. Your story doesn't make sense. People other than me are going to have questions. How will you answer them?"

"Honestly," Murdock answered. "Truthfully."

"How can you say you're prepared to do that when you won't even tell _me _the truth."

Murdock's eyes shifted to him, very serious for a long moment. "Doc, when you do a blood draw, you're gonna find that there's no medication in my system at all. And when they ask me questions, they're gonna find me the perfect picture of sanity. What's your story gonna be?"

Richter raised an eyebrow. "Well, _my_ story won't be one you have to be concerned about. And besides, it's not like I can just sign my name on the dotted line and have you released. There's a process. You have to convince a lot more people than just me."

Murdock paused for a long moment, then stood and crossed the few steps toward the desk, leaning forward slightly. If he told him his friends were alive and moving to Langley, Virginia, Richter would say he was delusional. He knew better than to tell him that. And he knew better than to tell any other doctor that. He lowered his voice.

"Doc, what I need from you is your support. Because whatever I've got to do to give them a story they _will_ believe, I'm going to do it. And if they don't, I'm going to walk out of here and I'm not going to come back. Because I need to be in Virginia as soon as possible."

"Virginia?" Richter was clearly shocked. "Why Virginia?"

Murdock smiled. "Because it's beautiful there. I have friends there. Closest thing I have to family now."

"We can transfer you to the VA in -"

"I don't _want _to transfer to the VA there," Murdock interrupted. "Doc. Please. Listen to me. I want to talk to the review board. I'm asking for your support."

Richter studied him for a long moment. Murdock didn't flinch under the careful scrutiny.

"There are people a hell of a lot more dangerous than me out there," Murdock said quietly. "I haven't been dangerous since 1973. I'm here because of a complete inability to cope with reality. And I'm telling you, I can cope with reality. Please. Let me talk to the board."

Finally, Richter nodded slowly and stood, turning towards his filing cabinet. "Alright, Murdock. We'll start the paperwork."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Suzanne's disbelieving laughter echoed softly in stark waiting area. "That's complete and utter bullshit."

The man she was talking to looked at her with a somewhat stunned expression. Not surprising - Suzanne wasn't known for any type of outburst, let alone emotional one. Considering the fact she was currently sitting outside the director's office, waiting to be called in for an investigation/disciplinary hearing, Suzanne couldn't really fault the man for his reaction.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"I mean it defies all logic and reason. I mean there is a less than zero percent probability that the A-Team was executed without so much as even a token protest."

"I'm sure they had plenty of protest. But according to the news, they _were _executed."

She paused for a second, looking her wristwatch. Less than two minutes until the inner office doors would open. Then she would have to fight a losing battle to save her career. Damn it all.

Simon was still looking at her, questioningly. This really wasn't the time to discuss this. But Simon was a good handler, and he was the only one in the Agency willing to accompany her today. Everyone else avoid her like she had some very unpleasant and highly contagious disease. The least she could do was talk to him.

"Trust me, Simon; they are still out there. Most likely laughing and enjoying how they pulled off another insane stunt."

Suzanne could just picture Hannibal, lighting up a cigar, eyes glinting with amusement and ego, flashing that cocky grin that made him look like he knew the secret to everything. He was probably out there laughing that insufferable laugh he had when he won; which he always seemed to do.

"There's no way in hell that the Army lined Hannibal Smith and his team in front of a firing squad and he went along quietly. Not a chance. It's not him." There was no anger or vehemence in her voice, this was just business, just facts. Frankly, she had spent too much time chasing Hannibal to buy into whatever cock and bull story the Army was trying to sell.

"How can you be so sure?" Doubt and question was plain to see in his wide, earnest eyes. God, he was young and had so much to learn.

A dull ache in her lower back had her shifting in her seat. The knife wound was minor and healing fine, but the stitches were an itchy, irritating reminder of just why she was here.

"If Hannibal thought for even a second that one of his men was in danger he would move heaven and Earth to save them, and they would do the same for him. That's just how they function."

Of all the things Suzanne needed to be doing right now, trying to explain how deep the bond of loyalty and trust Hannibal had with his team went wasn't one of them. Even if she _could_ explain it, Simon wouldn't understand it. That connection he shared with his team was something that had to be seen and experienced to even _begin_ to comprehend it.

With a deep breath, she forced her mind back to the issue at hand in the silence that followed. She needed to focus, to try and figure out just _what_ had gone wrong in Bolivia. She was about to be called into that office, where she would be expected to explain how ten months of intensive deep cover work had suddenly and for no readily apparent reason, gone to hell. Just how had her cover had been blown and two trusted contacts killed? What happened to one million dollars? The CIA money was missing, right along with the proof of Quarvo's attempt to buy weapons grade enriched uranium. Quarvo himself had somehow managed to slip away. To add insult to injury, Suzanne had no explanation, no idea how Quarvo had made her. There was no cause and effect she could identify, no logic to it.

Simon was chuckling. It brought her back to reality for a moment. "Don't tell me you think there is some kind of government conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy?"

"With the A-Team."

Her eyes honed in on his as she said flatly, "What I _think _doesn't matter."

She stood up, taking a moment to smooth her skirt down. It was 0900, on the dot, and they would be calling her in. The CIA was nothing if not punctual.

"What I _know_ is that if Colonel John Smith thought for a second his men were going to die he would rain down hellfire, explosions, fireworks, helicopters, homemade weapons and anything else he could get his hands on. He would scheme, plan, plot and fight, right until the bitter end. He would save them or die trying. No escape attempt? No chance it was him."

There was absolutely no doubt at all in her mind. The Hannibal she knew was a grade A, certifiable pain in the ass with an innate talent for getting under her skin and pushing her right past the edge of reason. He was cocky, arrogant, condescending and arguably insane. But he was also smart, experienced and damn good at accomplishing the impossible. Hell, he had built career on it. He would never just give up on something cared about. And he cared about his team, his men, more than anything. He would do what he had to in order to protect them. The only way to stop him would be to kill him, and he would die first, while doing everything he could to get them out alive.

Her thoughts left Hannibal when the doors to the inner office swung open and a stern faced secretary strode out. Stopping at her desk, the older woman spoke with a strict neutrality. "They will see you now, Agent Davids"

Simon gave her a small, worried smile. He would not be going in with her; this was something Suzanne had to face alone. Giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Simon whispered, "Good luck Suzanne."

Suzanne returned his smile and gave him a nod. She needed more than luck; she needed a miracle. Shoulders back and head held high, Suzanne marched into the office to meet her fate.

*X*X*X*

"You're moving _where_?" Kelly seemed as surprised by the idea as she was mortified.

"It's not for forever, Kelly." Murdock put his hands on her shoulders, holding her gently. "And I'll come back and see you every single chance I get. You'll probably see more of me now than ever!"

She was staring at him, jaw dropped. Finally, she shook her head as she turned away. "I don't understand. Your friends are," she choked on "executed" and forced her way through, "and all of a sudden you're moving to Virginia? Do you even realize what just..."

She winced, not wanting to talk about it. But he was staring at her in earnest. "Murdock, are you _okay_? I mean... it's a lot. A lot to go through. I would understand if you just couldn't -"

"No, it's not like that, Kelly." He took her arm gently, walked a few steps, and turned her around, setting her down on the couch. He knelt down in front of her, grabbing her hands between his. He knew his smile was confusing her. But he couldn't contain it. "They're not dead, sweetheart. They're fine, and they're going to Virginia to work for this guy who's going to get them _pardons_."

She stared. "They're... But I saw it on TV, Murdock."

"I'm telling you. I've seen them. They're fine."

The look on her face turned to one of fearful concern, and she reached a hand to touch his cheek. "Murdock, honey, they're gone."

She thought he was crazy. He couldn't blame her. Fifteen years in a mental hospital and he was showing up at her house raving about how he was following dead friends to a place he'd never been before. It definitely sounded crazy. If it wasn't _true_, he would've questioned his own sanity.

He shook his head, pulled back, and reached to his inside jacket paper for a folded piece of paper. "Look at that," he said quietly, handing it to her.

She hesitated a moment, then took it. "What is it?"

"It's my release papers from the VA."

She froze, and raised her eyes to his, stunned.

"It's over, Kelly. I don't have to do this anymore."

"Do what?" she asked, confused. "Murdock, what are you talking about?"

"The hospital, Kelly." He reached up and took her face in both hands, leaning over her lap. "It's over. All the reasons I had to stay there, Kelly, it's over."

"What reasons, Murdock?" She was understandably confused. "You never shared them with me."

He sighed, and let his hands drop, clasping over hers. "It doesn't matter, Kelly. The point is that this is the greatest thing that could possibly happen! Pardons, Kelly! No more running from the military. No more hiding in the psych ward; we can all have normal lives!"

She shook her head slightly. "Murdock, I cannot go to Virginia with you."

"I know you can't. But I'll be back. We're going to work for this guy for a little while. And then we are going to be pardoned. Free."

"I thought there were no charges against you," Kelly said. She sounded tired.

"There weren't." He sighed. "But you've got to understand, Kelly, I go where the team goes."

She stared at him, questioningly. He knew what she was asking, and he wasn't going to discuss it with her. Damn those words that came out of his mouth before he could think them through. But they were true; there was no more reason to stay at the hospital. The case of Morrison's murder was closed; the team had taken that bullet for him - quite literally. No reason maintain his "insanity" status.

"Murdock," Kelly whispered, reaching out to caress the side of his face lightly. "Your friends are gone. They were executed. It was all over the news."

He sighed, and shut his eyes. Disadvantages to the insanity status - she couldn't believe that he was actually serious. And sane. "They're in Virginia, Kelly," he said softly. "And I'm going with them." He reached up again and placed his hands on her cheeks, smiling as he rubbed his thumbs back and forth over her cheekbones. "And then, when this is over, I'm going to come back here. And be with you."

She sighed, and lowered her eyes away. There was no arguing with him. It was clear that nothing she said was going to convince him to give up. At least she understood that.

"When are you coming back?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know how long it will be. But I'll be back to visit every weekend. Every chance I get. I promise. This... it's not the end, Kelly. I will be back."

She smiled sadly and raised a hand, placing it over his. "You promise?"

He nodded once, firmly. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

*X*X*X*

BA stood at the window, grinding his fist into his palm as he stared out at an unfamiliar city. This wasn't right. Nothing about this was right. He was out of prison, but he didn't feel like it. Cut off from the rest of the world, watched and listened to every second, told where to stay and when to go... There was nothing about this that said "freedom" to him.

Murdock was on the other side of the country. BA didn't understand that. Frankie was good with special effects, BA had to give him that. But why Stockwell would want to put him on the team and leave Murdock behind in LA was beyond understanding. Murdock was part of the team. He might drive BA halfway to crazy sometimes, but he was part of the team. There was no arguing that. They didn't function the same without him. Not on the really important stuff. How were they supposed to do this without him? But Stockwell had made it clear from the very beginning that he was not welcome.

Of course, that had worked out for the best when he'd come to rescue them.

Pacing away from the window, BA let his thoughts move over all of the things that felt so incredibly wrong about all of this. Sitting in that jail cell, his thoughts had been so wrapped up in Hannibal's plan to get them out of there, he hadn't really thought about what they were going to do afterwards. Of course, they'd be convicted murderers. That was decided in the trial room, even though it was an outright lie. What would they have done if Stockwell hadn't showed up?

They would've had to run. Out of the country, maybe. They could still do that. They could hole up somewhere Stockwell would never find them; he was sure of it. The problem was, BA didn't like hiding and he didn't want to spend the rest of his life doing it. It was one thing to hide in LA. That wasn't even hiding, really. Hiding was like what he'd done in Chicago, and he'd sworn he would never do that again. The team would make it very different, but the hiding itself was something he never wanted to feel again...

This offer from Stockwell - the chance to clear their names and never have to hide from anything, anywhere... that was worth its weight in gold. The freedom to move around and do what they wanted was a foreign, but appealing, thought. No more threats from MPs or car chases through the city... Of course, there would probably always be an element of that. No matter how "free" they were, they'd still do what they did. There was nothing else for them _to _do. Still, they would be doing it because they wanted to, not because they had to.

His eyes drifted to the phone on the bedside table and he frowned. His hand was itching to pick it up. Just one phone call, just to let her know he was alive. It would take him sixty seconds. Stockwell would never even have to know. BA sighed at that. Except he would know because he had the phones bugged. He could go somewhere else, to a phone that wasn't bugged. But what were the chances, if he did that, of Stockwell still finding out. What if he had men watching Mama?

BA ground his teeth at that possibility, and jammed his fist back into his palm again. He didn't like this prison, but he liked the thought of _her _being in prison even less. He was going to have to find a way to call her. He _would _call her. All he was waiting for was the okay from Hannibal.

*X*X*X*

"What do you mean they won't release my son's body to me!"

Hell hath no fury like a black woman told what she _couldn't _do. And the young man on the other side of this phone conversation was damn sure gonna find that out.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, regulations are fairly clear on the process. You're welcome to appeal, but -"

"I'm his next of kin!" she interrupted. "His momma!"

"Yes, ma'am, I understand that."

"And just what are they gonna do with the body?"

"It will be buried by the State at no cost to you."  
That calm, matter of fact tone was wearing on her anger, breaking her down a little at a time. "I don't care about the cost, you hear me?" The anger wavered, warring with the pain and despair, and she dropped her head forward as she suddenly struggled, again, to keep her voice from cracking. "Lord have mercy; I just want my baby back."

"You're welcome to appeal, ma'am. You'll need to find a lawyer who can practice in a military court."

His voice faded into the background as she listened to him say the very same thing he'd been saying for the past twenty minutes. Without answering him, she slowly pulled the phone away from her ear, hung it up on the cradle, then leaned forward on the table with her head on her arms and cried silently.

"Lord, I just want my baby..."


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

In the three days since they'd signed their lives away to Stockwell, Face had barely said a word. BA wasn't even sure he'd eaten. When he knocked on the door and found out he wasn't in his room, he went searching.

He found him up on the roof. It was a good place. Warm sun, no listening devices from Stockwell. Face was sitting comfortably on the ledge with a Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. BA frowned. Face hadn't smoked those things in a long time.

Face didn't look up as BA approached. He considered sitting, but decided against it. Instead, he stared up at the sky and took in a deep breath before saying anything.

"You always find the best places to hide, Faceman."

Face glanced at him, then away again, dragging on the cigarette. "I needed some air."

"Yeah."

BA kept silent a moment. He knew the act; Face would push everyone away and let this situation eat away at him. But BA wasn't going to let that happen. Still, experience had taught him not to press too hard. Not with Face.

"Nice day, huh?"

"Yeah." Face took another drag, then a drink from the can, and sighed. "It's a little ridiculous how long he's keeping us here. You'd think he would want to get on with it."

BA gave a sigh of relief, glad that the real topic of conversation had been broached. "The man is crazy," he said with a shrug. "Ain't no way we gonna pull off a hundred missions in two years. And I ain't gonna just let my Mama think I'm dead all that time either."

"There's a payphone down the street," Face said flatly. "It's not like he could stop you."

"You think it's 'cause of Stockwell I'm here?"

Face glanced at him. Brow furrowed, he glared back.

"Stockwell's got no say. I'd go call her right now if it was just him sayin' I couldn't. Hannibal says we'll work it out. So we'll work it out."

"I got news for you, BA. Hannibal just signed his life away." Face paused for another long, slow drag. "We all did."

The anger came quick, but BA bit it back, realizing he was directing it at the wrong person. This wasn't why he'd come up to the roof. He let a few minutes of silence slip by before he spoke again. "I dunno man."

"Don't know what?"

BA sat on the ledge, but angled himself so that his back was to Face as he spoke. "You heard Hannibal. If we want out, he'd do whatever it takes to get us out. I know he meant it."

"He said that for Stockwell's benefit, not ours."

"Don't matter. He still said it."

"You've got no shortage of cash, BA. Neither do I. You want to take a trans-Atlantic cruise and never come back? You don't need Hannibal's help for that."

BA hesitated a moment, then turned to look at Face. "So what's stopping you? Why stay here? Why sign your life away?"

Face stared at him for a long moment, eyes empty. Finally, he looked away. "That's a good question."

"That ain't a good answer."

Face said nothing. BA frowned. He hadn't really expected Face to answer him. But he couldn't help wishing he had. He watched Face for a moment, hoping he'd continue. When he didn't, BA let out a long, tired sigh.

"Well, I ain't leaving."

Face was quiet for a long moment. Then, putting his cigarette out, he looked pointedly at BA. "Why?"

It was almost a challenge, a little too hard to be curiosity. It made BA sit up a little straighter. "What you mean, why?"

"Why did you sign that contract?"

BA sighed. "Hannibal's here, Face. Where else am I gonna go?"

Face looked away, and the silence stretched a few long minutes.

"You know what I want?" BA finally asked. "I want to live in LA again. I wanna be able to drive out and see my Mama and not have to worry 'bout MPs knockin' on her door. I want the life I had, but better. I don't want a new life. I don't want to start over someplace new. I'm tired of running."

"You're a hell of an optimist, BA."

"Besides," BA continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "We a team. We stick together like a team. We got to. It's the only thing we got left. I signed, 'cause we all did. And I'll stay 'til it's over and we can go home."

The challenge dropped from Face's expression as he stared at BA. It was replaced by a look that was almost awe. "You really believe we even have a _chance_ of getting out of this alive?"

"No. But we didn't have a chance of getting' out of Vietnam alive, neither."

Face stared at him for a moment longer, then sighed as he looked away again.

"You want to walk away? You can. I'm stayin'."

BA turned so his back was again to Face. He didn't want to see Face's reaction, or maybe he didn't want Face to see his. The truth of his words was hidden under the anger - anger that was better directed at Stockwell than Face. He wouldn't really blame Face if he walked away. But he knew what it would mean. They all did. As a team, they would have trouble with Stockwell's missions. But if they split? His heart sank at the thought. But even then, he still knew that for his part, he wouldn't leave. Not as long as Hannibal stayed.

"I'm not going anywhere, BA," Face said quietly.

BA let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He stood, but made no move to leave. Instead, he kept his back to Face as he stared up at the sky. "You ain't in this alone, Face. Don't act like you are."

He heard the scratch of Face's lighter as he lit another cigarette, then the sigh of exhale. "What do you want from me, BA? You want me to smile and act like everything's fine? Because I'm really just a little too tired to do that right now."

"Man, I don't want nothin' from you. Just wanna know where you stand is all."

"I made it very clear where I stood when I signed my name on that paper."

The cold, firm tone was all BA really needed to hear. Face had made his decision, and he wasn't going to back down on it. And that, somehow, was very comforting.

*X*X*X*

James had been to the flower shop the deliveries were coming from. He'd found out that a month's worth of flowers had been purchased, to be delivered once a day to his mother - at her home instead of at her work. Only the first delivery was to go to the VA clinic. He'd even found out that they were charged to the credit card of a Sam Shelton. There was an entire list of messages that went along with those flowers - none of which made any sense to him, all of which made his mother cry.

He wasn't sure what to think. In some sense, the tears were a good thing. She was coming out of that numb shock where she did nothing but stare at the wall, and stare at him if he tried to communicate with her. This morning, she'd even come down from her room without any prodding, went to the kitchen, and made coffee. It was a good sign. She was regaining basic functions.

The shock of Face's execution hadn't caught James entirely off guard. Even so, he knew he'd never erase the news reporter's words from his memory. He'd never forget how much willpower it had taken not to be sick right there on the living room floor. He'd never forget the sound of his mother's sobs, or the way she'd clung to him for dear life. All three of them had stood in that living room, huddled together and drowning in tears, until Mom simply... went somewhere else. She'd gone to bed, and when she woke up the next morning, she didn't get out of bed. She hadn't been herself - or anything remotely close - ever since.

"Mom?" James knocked softly on the door as he pushed it open. "Flowers."

She was dressed - jeans and T-shirt; she'd made an effort - and sitting against the headboard of her bed, staring towards the window. She looked at him as he stepped closer and set the flowers on the bedside table.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome."

He sat down at the edge of the bed and watched her for a moment, then stared again at the flowers. She hadn't reached for the card yet. Instead, her focus was on the window again. "What if he is alive, James?" she finally whispered.

James turned and studied her for a long moment, brow furrowed. He wasn't alive. They'd all seen the news report. And it could be anyone sending her flowers. But it was the first coherent, unrehearsed thing she'd said to him in almost two weeks, and he chose his answer carefully.

"What if he is?" He paused for a moment. "Until he shows up, or calls, or at least signs something with his name... it's all hypothetical."

Her gaze went to white dress shirt that was draped over the back of the chair in the corner. It was Face's. This was the first time she hadn't been wearing it - or one like it - since they'd heard the news.

"I want believe he's alive," she whispered, turning her gaze to him. "But what if I'm wrong?"

There was nothing he could say to that. He didn't try. He just forced a tight smile. She sighed as her eyes drifted back to the window. "It would be like losing him all over again," she whispered.

James hesitated. She was right. And the last thing he wanted was to get her hopes up for something that seemed entirely illogical and improbable. "That'd be a pretty big thing for any news reporter to get wrong," he said quietly, gently.

"I know."

She was looking at the flowers now, and the card that was still unopened. She took in a shaky breath, like she was afraid to reach for it, to read what it said. James followed her gaze. "You want me to read it for you?"

She hesitated a long time, so long that he began to wonder if she hadn't heard him. Just when he was about to ask again, she nodded.

He reached for the card silently. He already knew what it said. At least, he'd seen the list of things it could say. He knew it would mean nothing to him, and everything to her. As he opened it, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. "It's not signed," he said. "All it says is, 'Not a sound.'"

There was a strangled, choking gasp from her that made him look up. Even through the tears, and the strange laughing sobs, he could see the hope written all over her face. For the first time in his life, it occurred to James that hope could be a cruel thing.

"He is the _only _person who would know what that means," she whispered. "But he can't be alive."

It was supposed to be a statement, but it sounded more like a question. James lowered his head. He was out of suggestions for how and why she was receiving these flowers. He'd thought first, that it couldn't be Face. Then he'd thought that if it was Face, maybe he could've arranged to have them sent as a gesture of comfort. He'd always known it was possible, after all. But the order had been called into the flower shop three days after the execution. If it was things only Face would know, why tell someone else? Maybe more importantly, why do this to her? It just didn't make any sense.

"I don't know, Mom," he finally said, honestly. "But if it is him, I don't understand why he wouldn't have called _you_ instead of a flower shop."


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

"Well, I thought you gentlemen would be much more enamored of your surroundings."

"Oh, it's not the accommodations, General, it's the décor."

Hannibal didn't even try to fake enthusiasm as he led the procession in through the back door and across the white carpet, keeping pace with Stockwell. He barely cast a glance to the men at the doors who were watching them with assault rifles in hand.

"One way mirrors, hidden cameras, listening devices - the joint is loaded."

Hannibal had never in his life been more uncomfortable surveying a place he was going to call home. He wasn't impressed; he wasn't even amused. Holding his cigar in his teeth, lighter already in hand, he followed Stockwell towards the living room.

"Well since we have a deal and you're not going anyplace, what do you care if I take care of my investment?"

"Well there's a kind of bass-ackward logic there," Face said. He sounded just as unhappy about this place as Hannibal was. "What about principle?"

"Yeah," Frankie added. "What about it?"

Hannibal lit his cigar as he sat down on the white sofa, letting the rest of the team voice their opinions to Stockwell.

"Yeah man. We don't like this place." This time, even BA had an opinion. "It's just like jail."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Stockwell replied, glancing at his assistant. Carla was her name, if Hannibal remembered correctly. From that knowing smirk, the calm amusement shared in their exchanged glances, Hannibal's gut reaction was that they were just as close in private as in public. They shared secrets - and some of those were probably more personal than professional.

Face caught the direction of Stockwell's gaze and looked Carla up and down. "Well, I have to agree with him there," he said, casting a brief glance at Frankie, who was checking out the eye candy over the top of his sunglasses. Hard to tell if Face noticed his employers' exchanged gaze and was testing the waters or if he was just being his ever-charming self. In either case, Hannibal let him play, glancing around again at the room. Best guess, there were at least two cameras in here. Maybe more. And God only knew how many listening devices.

"You don't really think you can keep us here, do you?" Hannibal asked, in the most patient and polite tone he could manage. "Your security is nothing but holes."

Stockwell was staring at him, his gaze steady. "Holes? Such as?"

Hannibal grinned. No sense in pointing them out to him. Besides, it would be so much more fun to show him. "Wait and see."

"I'm sure in time you'll see it's better if you do things..." Stockwell paused, glancing back and forth between Hannibal, and Face, who was watching him with an expressionless, patient look. "If you do it my way."

"Ha! He does, he's got a sense of humor."

Hannibal slipped his lighter back into his pocket as Carla leaned over the back of the sofa and whispered to Stockwell.

As she stood and left again, Stockwell's gaze shifted back and forth between Hannibal and Face. "Well, which one of you got the address of this place out to Captain Murdock?"

Cigar between his teeth, Hannibal tipped his head just slightly, amused. "Oh, did he send you a postcard?"

Stockwell seemed more amused than unhappy with his response. "Not quite."

The opening door made Hannibal turn. The sight of Murdock bounding through the back door, followed by another grey suit with an assault rifle, had Hannibal and BA on their feet at the same time.

"Hi guys!"

"Captain!"

Frankie joined in, slapping high fives, clearly excited to see him. But Face hung back. Hannibal took a step closer, but stopped beside Face. Something about the way his lieutenant was looking at Murdock didn't sit quite right. Distant. Wary. It didn't escape Hannibal's notice that of all of them, Face was the only one who hadn't given some sort of greeting. In fact, he'd taken a big step _back_, putting some distance between them.

"How long are you out for, man?"

"Well, as long as I want."

Hannibal blinked in surprise, and watched as Murdock rocked on his heels, hands in his pocket and then out again to gesture.

"I'm officially released."

"What?" The disbelief in Face's voice was evident.

"I'm no longer insane."

Face turned and looked at Hannibal with a strange expression. He looked almost as if he'd just been betrayed, and simply couldn't believe it.

"I got my papers and everything. The board reviewed my case and they released me."

There was disbelief all the way around. Perhaps Hannibal was least surprised. Except, maybe, for Stockwell, who was still sitting comfortably on the sofa, watching them in silence.

Stockwell had known it would only be a matter of time before they contacted Murdock. It was hard to tell if he'd expected Murdock to show up here, but he'd known better than to make a point of forbidding it. Hannibal had made note of his words very carefully. They were to contact no one outside of the team. And Stockwell knew damn well that Murdock was - and always had been - part of the team.

"You can bunk here with me," Frankie offered.

"No, that's not the way it works, Frankie," Stockwell inserted. "This is not a college dorm."

Hannibal kept his eyes on Murdock. The tension the captain was radiating - the shifting and rocking and darting eyes - was nothing like his typical manic behavior. It was a cover for the fact that his heart was beating so fast in his chest that he could barely keep his voice steady. Hannibal could hear it; he could see it as Murdock looked down and regained his composure before he was able to declare, "I got my own place; I got my own pad. I even... I even..."

His thoughts were racing so fast his speech couldn't keep up. But his hands were out of his pockets, gesturing, and they weren't shaking.

"I even got a job. I gotta get out there and pay the ol' rent and put the butter on the ol' biscuits."

He was looking to Hannibal for a reaction, for approval. And Hannibal did his best to respond with curiosity. "What kind of job?"

The shift was so visible in Murdock's eyes, it couldn't have been more obvious to Hannibal if it had been neon green and flashing. The genuine excitement at seeing them had turned to the forced hope and fear that came with being truly on his own for the first time in... ever? From childhood, to academy, to military, to psych ward, Murdock had never had to think about paying rent. Add to that the uncomfortable situation of explaining that he was now sane - in front of a friendly but disbelieving audience, and Stockwell who was neither - and it was no wonder that Murdock was struggling to shove it all down under a smile that he couldn't quite manage.

"I'm workin' for the pound! I'm scoopin' up..." That look - that quick flash of something Hannibal had never wanted to see in Murdock's eyes again - was lost on everyone else. Even on Face, who was still staring at him, jaw dropped. Murdock covered it quickly - a gesture, a smile; he found his words again and hid the fact that he'd lost them in the despair of that look.

"Stray dogs," he finally resumed, cutting his eyes away from Hannibal, "that don't have a place to hang their collar at night and everything. Cute as a devil I've got a bunch of them right outside. You wanna see?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Before anyone could speak, he'd bounded back to the door and whistled, filling the room with excited, barking dogs. Hannibal smiled as Murdock relaxed in their company, no longer the center of attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal watched Face. Face was less than pleased. He was up on the sofa, trying to stay away from their drool. It was only a few short minutes before he excused himself. But by the time he did, he still hadn't said two words to Murdock.

*X*X*X*

The dogs had been amusing. They had helped take some of the sting out of having to track down where his team had been stashed away. Watching their expressions when he told them he was here for good, that he was no longer crazy... Well, that was nice, too. They had reacted pretty much like he had imagined they would - looking at him like he was - well, ironically - crazy.

All except for Face. He had stepped back, not even said a word to him. Frankly, Murdock wasn't sure what to make of that. Face had always kept himself locked down tight when he felt threatened; it was safer for him. And Lord knew this wasn't a safe environment. Was it just a defense mechanism? Stockwell's presence here was certainly very noticeable. Still, he had expected something from Face, even if it was just a hello.

Face was on the deck, looking out across the enormous backyard - the volleyball pit, the in-ground pool, complete with pool house, the armed guards patrolling the perimeter. His look was expressionless, staring blankly out at it and seeing none of it. Murdock shoved his hands deep into his pockets and leaned against the side of the house, waiting. Face was aware of his presence. He knew that for a fact. Four years of traipsing around in the jungle, chased by camouflaged enemy with AK-47s made that sixth sense innate.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that the man he was looking at was the same person as that kid in Southeast Asia. Even watching him during the trial, sitting at that table in his Class As, listening to the accusation that he'd forged Morrison's signature... Murdock was pretty sure he'd forged a number of signatures on any number of orders and requests and documents. Ironic that the one time it was totally legit was the one he was getting nailed on.

Face didn't move, didn't look at him. He had one knee bent with his arm draped over it, his back to Murdock. He didn't even acknowledge that he wasn't alone, as if he could just ignore that fact until it was no longer true. Finally, Murdock took a deep breath and let it out slow.

"You gonna keep up the silent treatment forever? Cause it's gonna be awkward if I have to ask BA to talk to you for me."

Face wasn't startled, and he didn't pretend to be. But he didn't respond, either.

"'BA, can you please ask Face to hand me some more ammunition? Hannibal, could you tell Face to duck for me, please?'" Murdock was jesting, looking for any reaction. He needed to get them past the awkwardness. Why was this so damn awkward?

"You shouldn't be here."

The words were like a blow. Murdock's smile fell as he watched Face. Why say that? If he'd learned one thing about Face in all the years he'd known him, it was that the words didn't always match the meaning.

Murdock took a few cautious steps forward and sat down beside him, hands between his knees. "You say it like I got a choice," Murdock said quietly. "Where else was I supposed to go? The VA sent me away and my family is here."

"The VA didn't 'send you away,' Murdock. You left."

The vicious tone caught Murdock entirely off guard. Face hadn't talked to him like that in over a decade. Sure, they fought. But that tone was meant to _hurt_. And Face hadn't intentionally tried to hurt him in a very long time.

"You snapped your fingers, and you walked out of the goddamn psych ward."

Murdock stared at him, not entirely sure what to make of that. Face stared back, jaw clenched, for a long moment, then stood up and paced a few steps away.

"You waited fourteen years," Face accused. "And you let them medicate the hell out of you, let them turn you into someone who _was_ crazy half the time! Then you decide you're bored with it and waltz out the front door?"

Murdock licked his lips, lowering his head. "I was crazy half the time," he said quietly.

"Were you?" Face challenged.

Murdock looked up at him again. "I don't even _remember _the first couple of years I was locked up in there."

"Fourteen years, Murdock!"

Murdock was confused. And knowing that Face's words were grounded in anger and reflex action didn't make them sting any less. "Face, for fourteen years, you've been breaking me _out _of the VA. You knew exactly how sane I was and wasn't and when and why. I never hid any of that from you. So where is this coming from?"

"Why didn't you ever tell us about Morrison?"

Murdock stared. It took him a moment to filter through the shock of the accusation he hadn't been expecting. Finally, he looked away. "I don't..." He hesitated, and tried to make his voice a little less shaky. "I told you a long time ago, I don't remember much of anything after that helicopter crashed into the river. Not until when I was in -"

"Don't give me that," Face interrupted, his voice cold and cutting. "You knew."

Murdock swallowed. "I didn't know, Face. I didn't start remembering until I saw Captain Curtis and -"

"You can't tell me you didn't know!" Face snapped at him. "You knew it every goddamn time they stuck a needle in your arm and pumped you full of those drugs. You knew every time you had to convince them that you _needed _those medications. Because as long as you were in that hospital, you weren't competent to stand trial. And the moment that trial is over, you snap your fingers and suddenly you're fixed. So don't try and tell me that you needed to be there."

"Maybe I just need to be with the team more."

Face growled in anger, and glared hard at him. "Cut the crap, Murdock. Did you _really_ think we were going to let you go down on that?"

The words sounded more like a vicious accusation than a question. Murdock closed his eyes for a second, suddenly bone tired. When he looked up again, he forced himself to meet Face's gaze. "You know, you remind me of my brother when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that. Like you're just absolutely disgusted that I'm here taking up space in your presence."

Face stared at him for a moment, then sighed as he looked away and ran a hand through his hair. Very slowly, the vicious look in his eyes faded and his breathing evened out.

"I knew you guy's wouldn't let me go down on that," Murdock finally answered. "And that's why I never said anything. I didn't know what had happened; I really _didn't _remember. But I knew it was bad. And I knew I had to stay in that hospital or I would have to remember it."

"We had no idea, Murdock. This whole damn thing comes out of left field and all of a sudden we come to find out you killed our commanding officer?"

Murdock's jaw set. "I killed a traitor."

"I'm not mad about what you did. I'm mad that you locked yourself up in a mental ward to avoid prosecution."

"Yeah, and it would've worked until the three of you stood up in court and confessed to a murder you didn't do. You think I wanted that to happen?"

"That's not the point, Murdock."

"No, it _is _the point. Did _you _think I'd let _you _go down for that?"

Face stared at him steadily. "It was never a question of whether or not you would," he said low, controlling the angry tone. "If we'd died in front of that firing squad it would've been because you _couldn't_ have done anything."

"If you had died in front of that firing squad, it would've been because I murdered a man in cold blood, without an ounce of remorse."

"Subjecting yourself to fourteen years of psych meds because you felt the need to protect yourself instead of relying on this team is _not _okay, Murdock. And I hope to God you believe now that you can trust us because now you get to live the rest of your life with the long term side effects of psych meds you didn't need!"

Murdock looked away. Face's anger was coming back as he went on, but that hurtful tone was gone. Still, the fact that Face could think, even for a second, that he didn't trust them made his chest ache.

"You three are the _only _people I trust," he said quietly.

"You used a VA psych ward to protect yourself for fourteen years," Face answered. "Don't talk to me about how you trust this team. You could've been out of there as soon as you were well enough. We would've _died _for you before we let you go down on a murder charge."

Murdock stood up, taking a few steps towards the door before he turned and looked Face in the eye. Fighting back pain, hurt and feelings he couldn't even identify, he looked at his best friend - the man who knew him better than anyone else in the whole God-forsaken world.

"While you're thinking about trust, Facey, you may wanna ask yourself why _you_ didn't trust _me_ to have a plan to keep the team and myself safe if anyone ever found out about Morrison. Because they could've pinned it on me and I would've walked away scot free. And instead, the three of you took matters into your own hands, stood up and lied to a judge so you could get yourselves executed. I don't know what you were thinking. But it sure as hell wasn't trust."

Face stared at him steadily, and said nothing. He had absolutely nothing to say. But he didn't look away as Murdock shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and walked back into the house without another word.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Evading the "security guards" at the compound was not difficult. With the aid of a couple maintenance uniforms and some chloroform, neither were the guards stationed inside the jet. It was really sort of pathetic how trusting they were. They never should've opened the door. If they'd just stayed inside, the team would've had to climb up through the cargo area and that would've taken long enough that backup could've been called. But people were trusting by nature, especially of other people who looked entirely harmless.

The contract the team had signed didn't specifically address the consequences of "protocol violations" such as stealing Stockwell's personal jet. That protected them, to some extent. It wasn't a violation of their agreement, per se. Which was not to suggest that Stockwell would take the news calmly. And there were enough loopholes in that contract to make this look very much like a violation if he set his sights on it. They couldn't keep this plane long. Just long enough to do a quick survey of who, exactly, they were working for now.

"Murdock, get this plane in the air," Hannibal ordered, tying the wrists of the unconscious guard just in case he woke up.

"Right, Colonel."

"In the air?" BA cried. "You didn't say nothin' about _flying _this plane. Just that we were gonna get on it and look at the files."

Hannibal smiled. Face was already in place behind him, and the needle was in his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, BA. We'll wake you when we're on the ground."

As BA collapsed without so much as a token protest, Frankie stared wide-eyed. "You guys have to go through this _every _time you fly?"

Hannibal doubted very much that Stockwell would go through so much trouble to get them to sign the damn contract just to turn around and say that they'd broken it. Even if he did, the worst he could do was no worse than he could've done before they'd signed. And he wouldn't do that if he wanted his jet back. Hannibal was more than prepared to call his bluff if he tried it.

"This is your captain speaking," Murdock's voice came over the speaker overhead. "We are first in line for takeoff so sit down, strap in, and get ready to roll!"

"Alright, guys, we haven't got much time," Hannibal said, sifting quickly through the files in the cabinet. The first one that caught his eye was simply labeled "A-Team." That seemed like as good a place as any to start. "He'll be calling us by morning. That means we've only got a few hours to go through all the information he's got stacked here. Papers, videos, audio, all of it. I want to know what he knows - as much about his operations as we can turn up."

Hannibal sat down at Stockwell's desk and flipped the folder open, scanning the first page quickly as they started towards the end of the runway. Right on the top were their official military records. He knew those inside and out; no reason to give them a second glance. But beneath them began the copies of their orders, and signed copies of official debriefings. Most of these missions, he'd not let himself think about in a very long time. Now, suddenly, the memories hit him with the force of a Mack truck.

**August, 1969**

"We're going to COSVN."

Hannibal's entire team stared at him as if he'd just grown another head. It was no wonder. He'd just told them that they were going to hit the enemy's central headquarters - on the other side of a border they weren't supposed to cross - as if he was giving an update on the current weather.

Face was the first to find his voice. "Are you serious?"

Hannibal smiled around his cigar and waggled his eyebrows a few times at the young lieutenant. "Neat idea, huh?"

"You've got to be kidding!"

As the translator finally found the words in the Yards' native language to explain the insanity he'd just heard, there was a collective cry of surprise.

"What are they expecting us to do?" Boston asked, jaw dropped.

"They're expecting us to take pictures," Hannibal explained. "Maps, mission plans, debriefing reports. They were non-specific as to how they want us to get all of it."

"So are we supposed to just walk right up to the front gate of COSVN and knock?" Face asked.

"Sounds like a suicide mission, Colonel," Boston said seriously. "Even if it wasn't in Cambodia."

"Where we're not even supposed to be," Cruiser finished.

"Well, I guess that's why we were chosen," Hannibal smiled. "Don't you think?"

The entire team exchanged glances. The horrified look on every single one of the Yards' faces was far greater than the Green Berets'. BA was the first to pull it together.

"You'd better have a plan, Hannibal," he started. "You'd better have a really good plan."

"Yeah, and not just for how we're going to get in," Face added. "We need an escape plan, too."

"Of course I do," Hannibal said confidently. "And like all great plans, it is subject to change."

*X*X*X*

COSVN was not impressive for a "central headquarters." But a series of tents and shacks strewn throughout the jungle was more scattered - and more efficient - than one large, central building. In the first three clearings, the plan worked like a charm. The explosions drew the NVA out of the tents, and a few rounds of fire from different, unknown directions sent them scrambling for reinforcements. Hannibal and Cruiser were into the tents in a flash, and the sound of their guns was lost in the gunfire outside as the NVA exchanged with what they assumed was an attack from the west but had in fact come from every direction but west.

There was no telling just how much useful information they were able to gather from inside the tents. They emerged with bags full of papers, and after three clearings, it was about all that they could carry anyways. BA was out of claymores. The NVA was getting wise to the pattern, and each clearing had more men than the last. At the edge of the fourth, they regrouped again.

"We're done here, Hannibal," Face said quietly, looking over the crowd that had gathered in the clearing. "We've got enough."

Hannibal smiled. "I think we can take one more."

"You crazy, man!" BA hissed. "They comin' from everywhere!"

"The whole place is crawling, Hannibal," Cruiser agreed. "We need to get out of here."

"And we're out of claymores."

Hannibal smiled. "Then I guess we just do this the old fashioned way." He pulled his gun in front of him and leveled it at one of the groups of soldiers who'd not split up into the jungle.

"Hannibal!"

Face's protest wasn't heard. A spray of bullets, and Hannibal was moving forward.

"God damn it!"

They had no choice but to follow, guns blazing, as Hannibal walked directly into the clearing like a man committing suicide. Their full frontal attack caught the NVA off guard, and they hardly had a chance to fire back. The truly dangerous fire was coming from the trees, the soldiers who'd been sent to find and corner them. Hannibal walked straight into the tent with Cruiser a step behind as the rest of them scanned the tree line and fired at anything that moved.

Face could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Out in the open, they were all prime targets. And it hadn't escaped his thoughts that they still had to find a way _out _of here. In essence, that meant going out through the trees where dozens of enemy were lying in wait.

Hannibal and Cruiser were in and out of the tent in seconds. Sacks bulging with papers, they headed back to the cover of the trees at about the same time that the soldiers who'd walked away returned and opened fire. They were dodging bullets on the way out of the clearing. But the bigger problem was clear; the enemy knew exactly where they were and could track which way they were going.

Stealth and skills and marksmanship were all set aside. Organization was lost. Right now, only one thing mattered: speed. They were losing papers from the sacks, and they didn't stop to pick them up. There was no time to think, to plan, to react. Face just ran.

A cry from behind him made him stop short, skidding to a stop and dropping to the ground. "Hannibal!"

"Go!" Hannibal yelled, scrambling back up to his feet. He was clutching his stomach, and blood was seeping through his fingers. "Just go!"

One of the Yards - Face couldn't immediately tell who - had stopped as well. As Face rushed back to his feet and to Hannibal's side, the Yard returned fire into the trees. Bullets were flying in both directions as Hannibal dropped to his knees after only a few steps and Face skidded to a stop next to him, shoving him behind a fallen tree that would offer them minimal cover, if only for a few seconds.

"Take off your pack!" Face ordered.

"I'm okay," Hannibal gasped.

He wasn't okay. He was losing blood. "Take it off!" Face yelled again, unstrapping it for him.

Face grabbed the bag of papers and threw it aside, but Hannibal lunged for it. Without thought, Face grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back against the tree trunk. "Don't be fucking stupid! You can't run with that!"

Hannibal stared at him. It took several seconds, then finally, the realization crossed his face. He nodded, and slipped his arms out of the pack that was strapped to his back. Face turned, perched over the top of the fallen tree, and fired into the bullets that were coming towards them from what seemed like every direction.

"Go!" he yelled. "Go now!"

Hannibal was up and running with only his CAR-15 in tow. Face watched him, providing cover for as long as he was able, then cast a lingering glance at the bag full of papers. God damn it...

He grabbed the bag, threw it over his shoulder, and bolted after Hannibal. In the thick overgrowth, he'd already lost sight of him. But he was leaving a trail of blood that was easy to follow. It would be a hell of a lot harder to find Cruiser and the others than it would be to find Hannibal.

Face caught up with Wo before anyone else. Two steps apart, they dodged the vines and limbs and rocks until suddenly, the young Montagnard soldier stopped so quickly, Face ran right into him. They both toppled forward, head over heels into the mud. Face's eyes and his gun snapped up at the same instant, and he froze as he found himself staring straight into the barrels of a half dozen AK-47s, held by soldiers who'd formed a tight line across their path.

Face's heart skipped a beat. Breathing hard, hands trembling from the adrenaline, he slowly pushed himself up as the NVA screamed orders at him that he could not understand. "_Chu hoi_," he choked between gasps of breath, hands up over his head as he slowly rose. Dizzy and sick to his stomach, he stopped while he was still on his knees, and laced his fingers behind his head, eyes sliding closed. "_Chu hoi..._"

*X*X*X*

This was not part of the plan.

Lying on his back, propped against the bank of the creek, Hannibal was trying to measure the amount of blood he'd lost. He was dizzy already. Disoriented. He had to slow this bleeding, or he was going to be powerless to help Face and Wo.

He could hear the orders, the angry yelling in Vietnamese. Face wouldn't understand a word of it, he knew. But Face was smart enough to know when and how to comply with a prisoner routine. Through the confusion, he could hear the shaky sound of Face's surrender.

Bleeding. He looked down at the blood seeping through his fingers. He still couldn't feel the pain through the adrenaline, but that was little comfort. Pulling his hand away from the wound, he set his gun on the ground beside him and ripped off his shirt. He twisted it, then tied it tight around his waist as tightly as he could, pressing the knot hard against the open hole in his gut. That, he could feel. He winced at the pain, but put it out of his mind as he held the knot against the wound, pressing it hard. His medical supplies were all in his pack. He had nothing with him to treat this, and he had bigger problems right now.

"{Get up! Get on your feet!}"

Their orders were riddled with expletives. Hannibal took a deep breath and turned slowly, carefully, crawling up under the thick leaves of some kind of low-growing palm. Cradling his gun to his side, he switched it to full manual as he looked out at the men standing in front of Face. He couldn't take six of them down before they got a shot off. No way in hell. And the first shot they fired would go right into Face's head.

"Where other Americani?"

Face's chest was still heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "Oh, so you speak English?"

"Where other Americani!" The demand was punctuated by the crack of a gun hitting the side of his head.

Face fell to the side and immediately drew his eyes back up to his captors. "Here's some English for you," he growled through gritted teeth. "Go to hell!"

"We know other Americani here," the English-speaking NVA growled. "He bleeding. He come out." The barrel of the man's AK pressed into Face's forehead, pushing him down against the ground. "Or you die."

Face growled again. "Fuck you."

Hannibal shut his eyes. He couldn't think. He'd always done well under pressure; his best plans and schemes came when he was forced to think on his feet. But at the moment, his mind was a blur. The pain was setting in, and the blood loss made everything feel like a dream. Dizzy and confused, he lost track of the words from either party. His eyes slid shut as his head dropped forward. _Think... Damn it, think!_

The world faded to black.

He was jolted awake by a bloodcurdling scream. Eyes open, his vision was still blurry. "You come out, Americani!"

He took a deep breath, swallowed hard, forced his thoughts to find coherence. Face was on his knees with the end of a gun on each side of his head. He was not the one screaming. Facing him, just a few feet away, Wo was also on his knees, his hand in the grip of one of the NVA. It took Hannibal a minute to bring it into focus. The Yard still had all his fingers, but two of them were already bleeding as the NVA set to pushing his knife up under a third fingernail. Wo screamed again, and shook violently.

"Come out, Americani! We kill you friends, you no come out!"

Face's gaze was steady on Wo. Unflinching and unemotional. The situation didn't escape him; he knew when they'd killed Wo - less of a prize than an American - they would move on to kill him as well. He also knew it wouldn't be quick or painless.

Hannibal breathed slow, looking around the clearing for anything he might use to his advantage. Unfortunately, he was limited by the fact that he couldn't move. He had plenty of ammunition; but the moment he fired, they would fire on him.

As the screams pierced the thick, humid jungle, he brought his gun in front of him. It was a risk he'd have to take. At least he had a position to shoot from. The worst that could happen was that it wouldn't work, and they'd all be killed. That was a pretty sure bet anyways, if he did nothing at all. But he'd made that choice when he'd stopped to wait for them.

He switched the gun back to full auto and braced it, aiming for the men on either side of Face. But before he could shoot, he had to get Face's attention. Otherwise, he was sure to be killed by the NVAs' reflexes. Forcing his eyes into focus, he gave a sharp whistle that could've been mistaken for the sounds of any number of birds and screaming monkeys. Face knew better. Hannibal saw the way he straightened, muscles tensing, eyes coming into focus.

"Wait!" he yelled as the NVA moved to another finger. The torture paused, and all eyes turned to him, guns ready. "You should let me talk to him."

"What you say?"

"He uh..." Face's eyes flashed. "The guy you're looking for. The one who's bleeding. He's not an American."

The NVA threw Wo to the ground as he approached Face with the knife. Two men trained their guns immediately on the shaking Yard as he clenched his bloody hand close to his chest.

"You lie," the NVA growled, placing the knife against Face's cheek.

"No no no," Face stammered. "He's not. _I'm_ an American. He's not. He's... Scandinavian."

"You lie!"

Face tilted his head back, away from the knife. "He doesn't speak English! Just... just let me talk to him! I speak his language."

The NVA considered that for a moment. Then, glaring down at Face, he dropped the knife to his side. "You talk. He no answer? I kill you."

_Talk to me, Face..._

"Oot-shay on-ay ee-thray," Face called loudly.

Hannibal smiled at the looks of confusion on the enemy's faces. Even those with a working knowledge of English had no idea just how beautifully years of pop culture had mutilated the language. "Pig latin" was easy enough to decipher... if you knew the English language. Their knowledge was intermediate at best, and they simply took his word for it that the language was something entirely foreign.

With facial expressions to mimic the fear they were looking for, Face continued steadily. "I-ay ill-way op-dray ack-bay. On-way... oo-tay..."

Hannibal readied his finger on the trigger. The instant Face counted three, he fell onto his back. There was no time for a startled response before all three men who'd been standing over him were cut down. Hannibal's gun never stopped firing as it shifted to the other group, standing over Wo. Face grabbed the nearest AK, but by the time he'd readied it, they were all on the ground.

Instantly, he scrambled to his feet, jerking Wo up. "Hannibal!"

"Over here," Hannibal called weakly, eyes sliding closed again.

In seconds, Face was crouched beside him. "Whatever happened to letting the dead bury their own dead?" he asked, turning Hannibal onto his back and looking down at the wound that was still oozing blood.

Hannibal smiled faintly as he put an arm around Face's shoulders and tried to pull himself up. "Doesn't apply to me, kid."


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Face's brow had been permanently creased since he'd set foot on this plane. As he finished strapping BA in, he walked to the filing cabinet.

"Hey, uh, don't you want to sit down for takeoff?" Frankie asked.

Face ignored him.

"The files all have numbers on them," Face observed as he started rummaging through. "They probably correspond to those audio and video tapes in the back room, if I had to guess."

"Make note of them," Hannibal said, deeply engrossed in the file he was skimming. "But leave them for now. We'll let BA handle that once we land."

"Where are we actually _going_?" Frankie asked.

"Doesn't matter," Hannibal answered. "Unless we want Stockwell to think we're not coming back, we don't exactly need to hide."

Frankie was quiet for a moment, considering that. It was as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him just how easy it would be to take this plane somewhere obscure and never return to Virginia. Face found his folder - filed alphabetically - and pulled it out of the cabinet. He didn't say a word as he closed the cabinet and walked over to a chair in the far corner just as they stopped at the end of the runway.

His entire military history greeted him in the first few pages, laid out in black and white. And it included the bits that weren't supposed to be there - the things that could've had him court marshaled and thrown into the stockade way back when he was nineteen. His eyes widened as they came to rest on a copy of the signed, handwritten confession he'd given to Westman, explaining the circumstances of almost two dozen charges of misconduct. Ironically, it was immediately followed by copies of the recommendations his commanding officers had sent for medals. How the hell did Stockwell get his hands on all that? And more importantly, _why_?

The files contained only a few of his orders - assigning him to A-503, then to RT-Cannon, his discharge papers, and his agreement to voluntary indefinite status when he re-upped. Commission date, and grades from the single semester of college he'd worked through. The few missions that were included - the robbery was distinctly not one of them - he remembered as the ones that were most notable. Two were for the Agency. And one was the drop he almost didn't come back from.

**September, 1968**

"Cover me!" Hannibal yelled, tossing a grenade down the steep hill he'd just led his team up at a full run.

There was a bomb crater fifty yards to his left, embedded in the side of the hill. It would provide defensible shelter. Of course, they would have to charge directly through their pursuers - who had formed a horseshoe around them and on either side. They were driving them somewhere; Hannibal knew it instinctively. He couldn't imagine what towards, but he wasn't anxious to find out what was at the top of this hill.

In any case, he had other things on his mind right now. He ran a half dozen steps back the way he'd come, slipping on the steep slope and the shifting mud. He lost his footing just a few feet from the downed man, and slid through the mud. He would've kept going if a bloody hand hadn't reached out to grab him.

Hot blood, wet and sticky, lubricated his grip as he pulled himself up to his feet. The exchanging rounds between the AKs and the M-16s were deafening. Shouts in both English and Vietnamese - Boston was desperately trying to raise Covey on the radio, to no avail. The NVA were tightening their ranks.

Hannibal shouldered his weapon, his eyes lingering on the blood that was pouring from Face's leg.

"Leave me! I can't walk!"

Hannibal growled. "Like fucking hell, Sergeant. Get up!"

It wasn't a request. Face let out an involuntary cry of pain as Hannibal jerked him to his feet, draping the wounded man's arm across his shoulders. As he came closer to the rest of his team - still spraying fire into the trees - Boston took his place under Face's weight. The young sergeant's head lulled as he moaned in pain again. He was losing a lot of blood. Fast.

"Get to that crater!" Hannibal yelled, pointing.

There was no time for questioning. Hannibal led them straight into the enemy fire. He'd hoped for the element of surprise, but the NVA didn't seem startled. One of the Nungs took an AK round in the chest and slumped to the ground without so much as a cry. Not willing to leave their fate to "spray and pray" tactics, Hannibal sought the enemy, and eliminated them a few at a time. It might have been easier if there weren't so damn many of them.

They reached the crater. The bomb had impacted perpendicular to the hill and formed a small alcove. It wasn't perfect, but it gave them a lip over their heads to protect them from fire coming from above, and a small rise that would impede fire from below. The surrounding terrain favored defense, too - the foliage had been blasted away for ten yards to one side, and a landslide had cleared the other side. They had field of fire all the way around them.

Boston, Indigo, and the three remaining Nungs immediately took up positions, ready to blast the hell out of anyone who came close. Cruiser moved immediately to Face. Once Hannibal had taken stock of their surroundings, he pulled Boston away from the lip and shoved the radio back into his hands.

"Get Covey!"

Boston nodded.

"Hannibal!" Instantly, he turned his attention to Cruiser, who hadn't even bothered to look up as he called. He was moving quickly away from Face and to the injured Nung. "Get his pants off. And Face, dammit, _hold_ that wound!"

Face was barely conscious enough to hear him. Hannibal ripped the leg of Face's pants. There was too much blood to see if the bullet had lodged or gone through. Blood everywhere - flowing quickly. The bullet hit the femoral artery. There was no doubt in Hannibal's mind about that. God damn it! The kid had been on his team for less than a month, and he was going to lose him...

Cruiser returned. The Nung was dead. Face was his only concern. Hannibal's hand had replaced Face's on the wound. "Face?" Cruiser called as he writhed his way out of his pack. "You hear me? Stay with me, okay? I need you to stay with me."

Still holding his hand tight over the wound, Hannibal could feel the blood pulse against his hand. Jesus. The kid was going to bleed to death in no time flat. Hannibal used his free hand to slide under Face's head, lifting it. It was enough to get the younger man's attention, and he opened his glassy eyes weakly.

"Face, look at me," Hannibal ordered calmly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cruiser grabbed rope from his pack, cut it, and then used the knife to cut a wide strip of fabric from the bloody pants. He worked quickly, wordlessly. "Look at me, kid."

Face's shallow breathing staggered as he slowly drew his half-lidded eyes to Hannibal's. Hannibal couldn't believe just how _fast _he was losing him. "You stay with me," he said quietly.

The sudden eruption of M-16 fire just a few feet behind him made Hannibal jump, but he kept his eyes on Face. "Stay with me. That's an order."

Face blinked slowly, but forced his eyes open again. "Boston, what's going on?" Hannibal asked, not breaking the young sergeant's gaze.

"They're coming up the hill! We pushed them back, but I don't know how long we can hold."

"Everyone okay on ammo?"

"We're good, Hannibal."

As Cruiser wound the strip of fabric around Face's leg, as high as he could get it, Face winced. "Stay with me, kid."

The fabric kept the rope from digging into Face's skin. But as Cruiser pulled the tourniquet tight, Face moaned in pain, his breathing heavier for just a moment. It wouldn't fix it. Hannibal knew that. Neither would the drugs Hannibal was injecting into his arm. They _had _to get out of here.

"I've got Covey!"

Hannibal glanced quickly at Boston and held out a bloody hand for the radio. Scrambling over to him, Boston handed it over. "This is RT Cannon One-Zero Hannibal Smith requesting _immediate _extraction on sector 1-3-2, 6-2-5, over!"

"Copy RT Cannon, this is Covey. Tac air en route. SITREP?"

As Hannibal opened his mouth to answer, a bullet struck one of the Nungs, flipping him clear over backwards. His skull was blown away. "Need immediate medevac, repeat _immediate_ medevac! I've got a man bleeding to death down here." His eyes flickered briefly back to Face, but the kid's eyes had closed. Cruiser was dressing the wound, wrapping it tight. "Got three men dead, three wounded." He saw blood running down the arm of one of the Nungs and wondered if his count was wrong, but didn't change it.

Within minutes, the sky teemed with fighters. F-4 Phantoms and F-100 Super Sabres and A-1 Skyraiders, pounding the enemy's position with cannons and cluster bombs and napalm. Hannibal kept a watchful eye on Face as the team caught their breath. There was nothing to do now but wait for the Hueys.

"Coon Cat Eighty-Eight to RT Cannon, copy?"

"RT Cannon One-Zero, copy," Hannibal answered into the radio, relieved. The choppers were there. Face was still alive. "Get us the hell out of here, Eighty-Eight."

"Is it secure down there?"

Hannibal stared. Secure? What the hell did he think this was, a training run? "Fuck no, it's not secure!" Hannibal yelled into the radio. "And the longer you wait the worse it's gonna get! We got their heads down - come in now!"

A brief hesitation. "Sorry, One-Zero, no can do."

Hannibal's jaw dropped.

"Eighty-Eight, this is Covey..."

"Go ahead Covey?"

"Your about as secure as you're gonna get down there, Eighty-Eight. Get in and get our boys out. We've got more tac air en route. By the time you're in, they'll be here to give you cover."

"I'm not going in if it's not secure, Covey," the pilot protested. "They're on the side of a hill; we'll get shot out of the sky for sure."

Hannibal was furious. He choked it back as he raised the radio again. "Listen!" he yelled. "You bring in some napalm and you put it damn near on top of us. And as _soon _as it hits you come in with the Huey. Understand? They won't have a chance to shoot at you!"

"Copy, One-Zero," Covey answered.

A moment's pause, then a grudging "copy" from the chopper pilot. Hannibal growled as he slammed the radio down. "I swear to god, if they _don't _shoot him out of the sky, I'm going to kill him myself." He turned to his team. "Get your heads down!" he ordered. "They're gonna napalm!"

The jellied gasoline flashed hot, dirty orange and black - so close it sucked the air right out of Hannibal's lungs. As he raised his head again and looked out over the edge of the crater, the only NVA he saw were running away or lying dead on the burning landscape.

No choppers.

"Eighty-Eight, where the fuck are you?"

"Are you sure it's secure?"

Hannibal's blood boiled. Rage and adrenaline. "Get in here! Now! They're running away, god damn it!"

The Huey dropped into sight, still some distance away. "But I still see people over here and over there..."

Hannibal dropped the radio into his lap, emotionally spent. With each passing second of hesitation, the chances of any of them getting out of this alive were diminishing. He was very close to the point of resigning himself to it. He just didn't have the energy to fight with the pilot - not after all of his adrenaline had been exhausted.

Boston grabbed the radio then, and with a tone would not be ignored, screamed at the pilot. "Get the fuck in here and get us! Before I blow you out of the god damned sky myself!"

With a detached sort of amusement, Hannibal realized that it was the first time he had ever heard Boston curse so colorfully.

The chopper came close. Hannibal turned, and waved the bright orange marker for him. But as he cleared the trees, a hundred yards away, he took a few rounds of ground fire. Ignoring the beacon, and his orders from both the team and from Covey, the pilot accelerated and climbed away.

"One-Zero, this is Covey." The FAC sounded pissed.

Growing more hopeless by the second, Hannibal turned and put his back to the lip of the crater. "Go ahead, Covey."

"I've got a gunship willing to come in. He'll take your wounded. But he can't hold all of you. We can't pull the rest of you out until morning. I'm sorry."

Hannibal didn't hesitate. "Send him," he answered. "I'll put my medic on board with my wounded. Can he hold two?" Face's injury was the only one that was immediately life-threatening.

"Standby."

Hannibal waited, staring at the unconscious Lieutenant and the medic who was still wrapping layer upon layer of gauze over his wound. "Affirmative, One-Zero. Switch to frequency 1-1-8, you'll be talking to Right Hand Seven-One."

*X*X*X*

Covered with mud and grease paint and dried blood - and some fresh - Hannibal made a beeline from the chopper to the commo bunker. It had been the night from hell. Covey had called in air strikes until it was too dark to direct them, then promised to be back at first light. From that point on, they were on their own. His team was exhausted, and diminished in numbers. The dead Nungs weighed heavy on Hannibal's mind, but not as heavy as the bullet wounds sustained by Boston - to his arm - or Face's bleeding, the night before. He realized that he hadn't gotten an update on Face's condition. But Cruiser hadn't come out to meet him, and Hannibal suspected he was still at Face's side. If that was the case, the kid had to still be alive.

There were other things on Hannibal's mind, too. He'd caught a second wind at dawn, just before the choppers had arrived to pull them out. His adrenaline had been spent long ago, but his anger wasn't. He pushed his way through the welcoming committee, ignoring them as they tried to congratulate and comfort at the same time.

"Boston, go to the dispensary," he ordered. "Get your arm fixed and find out where they sent Face."

"Yes, sir."

Suddenly, Hannibal turned and yelled to all the men standing nearby. "Where the fucking hell can I find Coon Cat Eighty-Eight! Who knows who that call sign belongs to?"

An exchange of glances as they all slowly realized that he was out for blood.

"Hannibal?"

He had to stop as he almost ran right into the man who'd stopped in front of him. He recognized him. Carl "Shorty" Maier, a SOG Lieutenant.  
"What?" Hannibal demanded impatiently.

"General Westman is here to see you."

Hannibal stopped. Westman had come to an FOB? Something was wrong. Hannibal's thoughts immediately drifted to Face, and his blood ran cold. He kept his reaction under wraps. "Where is he?"

"He's in the TOC. He said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in."

*X*X*X*

Hannibal stormed into the TOC with fire in his eyes and curses under his breath. The men surrounding General Westman quickly gave their parting words and filed out of the underground bunker. Hannibal let them pass before directing his attention to Westman. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice flat and cold.

"I came to congratulate you," Westman said with a smile.

Hannibal stared at him emotionlessly. Jesus, was he serious? Hannibal didn't have time for this.

"I don't think you realize the ramifications of the mission you just -"

"Coon Cat Eighty-Eight," Hannibal interrupted, spitting the call sign through his teeth. "Where can I find him?"

Westman blinked, surprised. "Say what?"

Hannibal could feel the rage boiling just beneath the surface. "The son of a bitch chopper pilot that left me and my men to die when he could've gotten us out of there!"

For a long moment, Westman stared at him. "What happened?" he finally asked, sitting down.

With a measured tone and enforced calm, Hannibal debriefed the mission. The hit on the weapons cache had gone well enough. The escape had been about as difficult as planned. Having Face shot was an unfortunate setback, but one that Hannibal had recognized as a possibility. But the part that he hadn't planned on - the part that he couldn't move past - was the spineless AC who'd left them stranded.

"I want his rank," Hannibal growled, eyes blazing. "I want his fucking wings. I want him fucking _court _marshaled for what he did out there!"

Westman sighed, lowering his eyes. "I can't court martial him, John," he said. "He has the authority to make the call. It's his crew, his bird."

"Are you kidding me?" Hannibal demanded, furious. "He's lost his nerve, Ross! And he could've fucking killed us all!"

"I understand that."

"The next time he does it, the team may not be able to hold out all goddamn night long!"

The general nodded, and raised his eyes to meet Hannibal's fiery glare. "He won't do it again, Colonel," Westman promised. "I'll take care of it."

Hannibal growled. "If my sergeant dies - or God forbid, if he's already dead - you're going to have to take care of _me_. I'll take care of that goddamn pilot."


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

Hannibal's eyes scanned over the papers in front of him one at a time. It was unbelievable how much background information Stockwell had on the team. Most of the stuff from Vietnam was on record for anyone with a high enough clearance. But a number of these papers would've been hard to come by. He had mission details on their service for both the Army and the Agency, including the black ops and the assignments they'd done directly under Westman's order. But none of that would've been impossible for anyone with the right connections to obtain.

Hannibal was far more concerned with the information he'd gathered on them _after _Vietnam. Specifically, he was not happy to find that the file contained bits and pieces of information - right down to the names and addresses of the people they'd helped - all the way back to 1981. Stockwell had detailed information on aspects of their clients' lives that even Hannibal hadn't cared to look at. Slightly awed, and more than a little appalled that someone would find it so necessary to invade the personal privacy of so many people for no damn reason whatsoever, he turned the page again.

The records of the military police tactics to arrest them were amusing. Write ups from Lynch, Decker, and Fullbright on failure after failure. He skimmed through those with fond but fleeting memories, and finally set the file aside.

"Anything interesting?" Frankie asked, finally getting out of his seat as they settled at their altitude.

"He's been watching us since at least 81," Hannibal informed, scribbling the number of the video file on a pad of paper on the desk before he returned the folder to the filing cabinet. "He's got information on the clients we worked for from way back then."

"What? Why?" Frankie sounded both stunned and horrified.

"The man does his homework," Face muttered, not looking up. "He's got copies of stuff from Vietnam that shouldn't be on file."

Hannibal turned and caught his brief glance. Given that file Face had in his lap was most likely his own, there was only one thing Face could mean by that. The indiscretions of Face's early service should not have been on file for Stockwell to pull.

With that in mind, Hannibal pulled his own file from the cabinet, then sat down again. On paper, he knew it should sparkle right up until the bank job. West Point graduate with honors, no disciplinary reports to speak of, and one commendation after another. He'd moved up the ranks with lightening speed once he'd attracted Westman's attention. But that was to be expected with the effect that his charm had had on the general's wife.

**June, 1954**

"You know," Hannibal said, shifting his grip on the packages in his hand as the woman in front of him opened the door, "when I graduated West Point, this is not the way I suspected I would be earning a living, five years later."

She smiled at up at him, standing just a little closer then was strictly necessary. The way that she kept doing that was hard to ignore.

"Don't tell me that escorting beautiful woman around New York bores you, Captain?"

"Boring?" He followed her into the hotel suite and dropped the packages on the chair by the door. "Well, I wouldn't call it boring but it definitely redefines the concept of 'adaptable strategy.'"

Dropping her key on the dresser, she turned and stepped very close to him as she slid he coat off of her shoulders in a languid and sensual movement. Her eyes never left his as she tossed the coat on the chair, on top of the packages.

"Really? And just what sort of 'adaptable strategy' do you have in mind?"

He tipped his head slightly, an innocent expression on his perfectly straight face. "Battle plans have to be adjusted for Macy's. It's a much more cutthroat environment."

She laughed. "Women are the more deadly of the species, you know."

"As the annual shoe sale proves," he agreed.

"All those lonely, bored housewives, looking for something to fill their," she paused and traced her tongue over her lips, eyeing him blatantly, "time."

"How unfortunate that their husbands don't fill their time for them."

She smiled at the obvious redirection, and the implied question. All day long, the pheromones had been sheeting off of her. What was she trying to achieve?

"That's just it, Captain," she whispered seductively. "Most of their husbands couldn't care less."

"Oh, I don't know if that's true."

She lowered her eyes, letting them rake over him, before she looked back up, pressing in too close again. This time, he could feel the warmth of her body along his front. The invitation was so obvious it was painful, but he kept his hands at his sides. It wasn't that he was afraid of her - who she was, as General Westman's wife. That probably would've been a healthy fear to have, in fact. But instead, the only thing he felt for her was disinterest. He was just, quite simply, unimpressed by her attempts at "sexy and enticing." She was pretty to look at, no doubt. But she was, in her own words, just another lonely, bored housewife looking to be "filled." What use did he have for that?

"Take Ross, for example," she said softly. "So long as I stay pretty and occupied, and leave him to his war games, it really doesn't matter to him what I do."

Hannibal smiled knowingly, and stepped around her, headed for the small bar in the suite. "Would you care for a drink, Elaine?"

The use of her name was as calculated as it was comfortable. And her response matched his perfectly.

"That would be lovely, John."

As he move towards the bar she turned and walked to the windows at the other end of the room. Her hips swayed as she moved, reaching up to open the curtains, exposing the view of the skyline.

"It really is a wonderful city," she sighed happily. "And much more fun with the right companion."

He filled two glasses with schnapps, and took one to her. Their fingers brushed a little too long as he handed her the glass, but he pretended not to notice. She leaned against the glass of the window, arching her back slightly, sensually.

"What should we drink to?" she asked, smiling at him over her glass.

He considered for a moment, then smiled back as he lifted his glass. "To strategy." He dropped his voice lower as he tipped his head forward. "And tactics."

She raised her glass to his, taking a sip before setting it down. Smoothly, she moved in on him again, this time placing a hand on his chest. He didn't move back, but he didn't meet her halfway either. He simply watched her, right up close, with no concern for the fact that she was crouching in on his personal space.

"Do you believe that all's fair in love and war?"

"I do."

"Which do you prefer? Love or war?"

"That depends."

"Ross _always _chooses war. I fail to see what is so enticing about it."

John finished his drink, then set the glass aside. His arm slid around her waist as he brought it back in. "There are incentives to both."

She laughed, low and sultry, letting her own hand play over his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. "What kind of incentives motivate you, John?"

He smiled as his thumb stroked back and forth along the small of her back. "I suppose the same incentives that motivate any other man." He smiled darkly. "Except, perhaps, that I prefer both love and war to be dangerous, exciting, and riddled with strategy and tactics."

She bit her lower lip, then ran the tip of her tongue over it. He could almost smell her arousal, through the scent of the light, flowery perfume she wore. "You _seem_ to be very, very good at all of those. But it's so hard to judge without field experience."

"Field experience certainly has its place."  
"Indeed."

Her hands were wandering lower. He watched her, amused by her initiative.

"You know," he said lightly, "somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't help thinking about just how bad this could look to someone who wasn't briefed on the chain of command here."

There was that sultry laugh again. Her hand past his belt, rubbing lightly on the front of his slacks. "Your commander has been briefed about this situation before. If you can keep me... entertained, he would probably put you up for a promotion."

He leaned forward just slightly, lips almost brushing hers but not quite touching. "I prefer to earn my promotions the old fashioned way."

"Reputation?" She leaned forward to let her lips brush his. "Because I can help with that, too."

He smiled, nuzzling her so feather lightly it wasn't clear if he was actually touching her or if that was just the warmth of his skin. "With tactics," he breathed.

"What about skills?"

Finally, he caught her lower lip, pulling gently, barely a kiss. Her hand rubbed more firmly, the other sliding behind his neck and into his hair.

"Skills are learned," he whispered, feeling her warm breath on his lips. "They're nothing without a natural aptitude."

"Is there something you could show me? Or maybe I could show you?"

She was losing her ability to banter as her breath came harder. He smiled at that. It was so damned easy...

"A demonstration?" Slowly, he could feel his body responding to her, blood stirring in his groin. "That depends. Will I be graded on my performance?"

"You don't seem like the type of man who needs external praise or grades."

"Need it?" He was amused by that. "Hardly."

She gasped as he pulled her in closer, trapping her arm between them, lips close to hers but not quite kissing her. His eyes were locked on hers, and he could read the desire there as he finished in a low whisper. "But I like the pressure."

"Pressure," she repeated breathlessly. Slowly, her fingers unfastened his belt, and slipped inside of his slacks - skin against hot skin. "Pressure like this?"

He smiled knowingly as he pushed his hips forward just slightly, against her hand. "Just like that."

*X*X*X

"I hear you had quite an exciting day today."

The smirk in the general's tone was almost enough to elicit an eye roll from Hannibal. "As much fun as one can have wandering in and out of department stores, Sir."

"My wife says that is the best way to pass the time."

Hannibal eyed him warily, not sure what he was getting at with that, and he chuckled as he tapped his pack of cigarettes and offered one to Hannibal before he lit his own.

"Relax, Captain. You kept her amused and out of my office. That might put you in line for a medal."

Hannibal laughed as he lit his cigarette. He didn't care for them, terribly. But it was a social thing. "You know, a less confidence man might actually find that insulting."

"Well, it's a damn good thing you're confident, because it's not an insult, John."

The lack of formality was still taking some getting used to. This man outranked him by a mile. A West Point graduate himself, Ross Westman had been promoted to general not long ago. Hannibal's uncanny ability to make favorable first impressions - both on the general and his wife - had turned the tables in his favor. He was well aware that General Westman was rising straight to the top of military power and influence. He was a good man to know, and many men of Hannibal's rank would have killed for the chance to be sitting in his study, conversing with him. But this informal sort of attitude and the repeated assignments to amuse his wife made for a very confusing relationship that was not at all what Hannibal had anticipated, and he wasn't entirely sure what to think about it.

Westman leaned his head back and took a long drag. "Elaine is everything I need in a wife. But dealing with her is full time occupation."

"So I've noticed."

"Got to tell you, John, if she was married to Ike, we would all be speaking German and goose stepping. Instead of letting him plan D-Day, she would have had him picking china patterns."

Hannibal had nothing to say to that. He simply stood still and watched with a practiced smile as Westman took another drag.

"It's good to know I don't have to wonder when she's going to show up and demand I finalize what shade of blue for the powder room when I'm meeting with the JOIC."

"Well, it's nice to know that four years of West Point adequately prepared me for _something_ useful."

Westman chuckled. "In a few years, you might just find yourself wishing for a couple weeks of entertaining a wealthy, bored woman."

"Wealthy and bored are two things I've never had much interest in, Sir."

"That may be. But it's a point of fact that this job will lead you to some of the most unpleasant places on earth."

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing that I've always had more interest in trench warfare than fear of it."

For just a moment, Westman looked very old as he took another drag and stared into the distance.

"The way things are going in DC, you're going to have plenty of opportunities to indulge that interest."

"I look forward to it, Sir."

Westman tapped his ashes and looked at Hannibal. "You know, I looked over your file from West Point. Top scores in most all your classes. And then the other ones, you damn near failed out of. Were they the ones that were really so hard or the ones where you just didn't give a damn?"

"Some professors made it hard to give a damn, Sir."

"Do I make it hard?"

"No, Sir," Hannibal answered smoothly. "Your wife does."

Westman laughed heartily at that, and turned to the small table near the window. "You want a drink, son?"

"No, thank you."

Now he was "son." Next, he would be "kid." The divide between what he was aspiring to get out of this relationship and the role he was being funneled into grew ever wider.

"You know," Westman said as he poured a glass of amber liquid, "the the last aide I had wanted an Embassy post. Elaine also found him engaging."

Hannibal frowned. That certainly wasn't the direction he wanted to go, either. "There's not an Embassy in the world that wouldn't bore me to tears, Sir."

"McNair felt differently. But then again, he's got an eye on a political career."

"That explains the difference."

"He's stationed in Italy at the moment, making connections and on his way to a senate seat."

"Good for him." Hannibal looked pointedly at Westman. "Why are you telling me this?"

Westman studied him curiously. "Tell me, Captain. Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"You asked me that five years ago. Nearly five, anyway."

"I'm asking you again."

"Why? The answer I gave you five years ago would still be my answer today. I see myself leading men in tactical warfare."

Westman took a drink, then sat down behind his desk, leaning back comfortably. "Do you know why you're not doing that today?"

That was a trick question if he'd ever heard one. "No, Sir."

"Two reasons. The first is that when I met you, you were still relying on other men to make you give a damn."

Hannibal's jaw tightened, but he didn't otherwise respond either to the words or to the careful scrutiny that followed. The point was well made, but the general had said _two _reasons.

"The second is that I've got much bigger plans for you, Captain Smith. And for your part, putting in your time making a General's life easier is a very good way to get you to where you want to be."

Hannibal considered that quietly, carefully assessing Westman's words and his own before he spoke them. Finally, he sat forward, setting the cigarette in the ashtray and folding his hands on his lap.

"I don't know how to put this delicately, General. But the further I climb up the ranks, the further away I get from where I really want to be. I went to West Point for the credibility, the stamp of approval that'll make men like you take me seriously. I'm good, and I know it. But I didn't go there to make general. And I certainly didn't go there to become a senator."

"I would be disappointed if you did, John." He took one last drag and put out his smoke. "A man like you would want to be on the ground, leading men into the thick of it. That's something that's going to be difficult, the higher your rank. And I'm well aware of that."

"I'm glad we understand each other on that point, at least."

"But before you get to give orders to men who are about to die, you can be damn sure you're going to put in your time and prove you can take the orders. Even the ones that bore you to tears."

Hannibal gave a practiced, polite smile. "I'm not complaining, General. I've been putting in my time for five years, and I'll put in for another five. But it's statements like that that make me wonder why you're asking where I think I'll be in five years. If, at the end of those five years, I am still braving the Macy's after-Thanksgiving sale, I may feel more inclined to retire early."

Again, Westman laughed. "Hell, John, if you're shopping in five years, you'll be bat shit crazy and talking to your socks."

"That's one way of looking at it."

"Anyway, I'm not looking for five years," Westman said, the laughter fading from his voice as a more serious tone crept in. "Truth is, I'm going to need you in the field well before then. You've proven your mettle in Korea. I noticed that. You're proving your dedication here. And right now, I need you to keep Elaine from interfering with the," he waved to the stack of papers on his desk, "running of peace. You keep her happy and I'm happy. And having a happy CO is something that _will _get you where you want to be."

Hannibal answered with a polite smile. "Like I said, I'm not complaining."


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

Whatever Stockwell had on his military record, Face had other things on his mind that he was far more concerned about. He had opened his file sure that he was only looking for one thing: Jessica's name. In a file this thick, he was sure it was in here somewhere. The only question was if it was somewhere recent - somewhere that might put her in danger. But somewhere between opening the file and thumbing through the contents, he'd gotten sidetracked by the notes and documentation and personal accounts - some of them interview style.

In the place where his birth certificate belonged, a quick biographical sketch of his mother that included unverifiable facts that even he didn't know. There was nothing on his father. Grade school records and PT scores from basic. Was this guy serious? What the hell did he even _want _with all of this information?

Names and faces and quick reference facts on people he'd known and done business with in Vietnam. Anyone he'd mentioned in that confession, and some that he hadn't. How did Stockwell even _know_ about these people? There were photos, too. Some of the people, he didn't even recognize. But it was the photo of a young Vietnamese girl, no older than fifteen, that caught him totally by surprise

_Sue..._

**December, 1969**

"Excuse me."

The young marine with the girl on his lap looked up, startled by the intrusion.

Face smiled politely. "I know this is a little... unusual. But can I borrow her for a moment?"

It was more of a bribe than a question. Face set a nearly-full bottle of whiskey on the table as the girl looked to Face, then back at her current client.

"This bottle's on me," Face said with a smile. "However much you and your buddies want to finish before I'm done with her."

It was, in fact, an unusual request. So unusual, in fact, that the marines at the table would have definitely questioned his motives if not for the bottle. What was so special about her, anyways? But with the bottle on the table, they just chuckled.

"Be my guest, man," his target answered, shooing the woman off of his lap. "You wanna join us?"

"Thanks, but I need to talk to her." Face gave him a brilliant smile as he slipped a hand behind her back and led her away.

"{You are very subtle, Face,}" she spoke in French, once they were out of earshot. He could hear the smile in her voice.

"{Well, I certainly don't want to cause you any problems in the future.}"

He led her towards the back of the bar, where he could talk with her in relative quiet and still keep an eye on Murdock. As he came to a stop, he turned towards her, pulling her closer and giving her a deep, slow kiss. She was smiling as he pulled away.

"{So now that you have me, what can I do for you?}" Her fingers trailed lightly down the front of his fatigues.

"{I have somebody I'd like you to meet.}"

"{Oh?}"

"{He's a friend of mine.}"

"{Not Cruiser?}"  
"{Different friend.}"

"{I would be happy to meet him.}"

Face nodded, and directed her attention to the bar. "{He's the third one from the right. And you're going to have to make introductions for yourself.}"

He gave her a moment to find Murdock.

"{He's a pilot. And he speaks Vietnamese.}"

She glanced back at Face with a curious look. "{You know, sometimes I wonder what you're scheming. And sometimes I think I wouldn't want to know.}"

He laughed quietly. "{I'm not scheming anything.}"

"{Now you're just making me even more curious.}"

"{He's more the discreet and intimate type.}"

"{He has a wife?}"

"{No. But he's the type.}"

"Hmm." She pondered for a moment, watching Murdock down another shot, then looked back at Face again. "{You will not be joining us, then?}"

"{No. But...}" He fetched the room key from his pocket and held it up for her to see. "{This is for room 3 right across the street. Bring him back over when you're done, and I'll pay you then.}"

She took the key, and looked back at Murdock again. "{He looks so sad.}"

"{Yeah, it's the melodrama that's getting to me, to be perfectly honest. Otherwise I wouldn't have pulled you away from your catch of the night.}"

She laughed softly. "{I would rather work for you anytime.}"

"{Good to know.}"

"{What's his name?}"

"{Captain HM Murdock. Make sure you mention somehow that I sent you, or he may push you away.}"

She nodded, and turned back to give one last smile to Face. His arm slipped around her again as she pressed in closer and offered a parting kiss. "{I will make sure he has a good time,}" she promised.

He smiled back at her as he nodded in understanding. "{I know you will.}"

*X*X*X*

Face stood, leaving the file open on the small table in front of him as he took her picture and the paper that was attached to it - the one that had her real name on it - back to the cabinet. With all of those files, what were the chances that Stockwell had one specifically on her? It was time to see just how thorough Stockwell was.

Nobody said a word as he opened the drawer again. There was only the quiet shuffling of papers and the hum of the jet's engines. He rummaged for a few moments, then stopped as his fingers found the name he was looking for on the file. "I don't believe this," he said under his breath.

"Something wrong, Lieutenant?"

Face pulled the file out of the drawer and flipped it open. There wasn't much. She'd immigrated to the States with her brother, who was an ARVN soldier. She'd gone to college, and now she lived and worked at an accounting firm in San Francisco. Face was surprised by that, but pleased. She deserved it. Lord knew she'd had a shitty childhood.

"The people he's got files on," Face said under his breath. He glanced up, just long enough to catch Hannibal's gaze. "It's like he just wants to know where he can find anyone he might be able to use against us."

"That might not be far from the truth," Hannibal said, returning to his folder. "One of the first things he said to me was that when he wanted me, he knew where to find me."

Face slid Sue's folder back into place, and paused for a long moment before he let his fingers wander back, through the alphabetic names until they finally stopped at his target. Jessica Summers. His chest tightened as he withdrew the file and opened it slowly.

He had never seen the birth certificates of Jessica's two children. His name was not on them. Somehow, that was little comfort to him. The fact that they were _here_, in a file in Stockwell's cabinet, was enough to make his skin crawl. If there was any thought in Face's mind that he didn't know about them, those hopes were shattered now.

The information in Jessica's file was not detailed. Service record, discharge papers, college transcripts. There were no personal letters or testimonies. But there were photos. Surveillance. His eyes narrowed as he studied them and realized they were not recent photos. She was younger. The photos were dated 1973. College. She would've been in college then. Why on earth would he have pictures of her from that time period and nothing more recent?

He wasn't prepared for the emotion that hit him as he suddenly came to a photo of her with another familiar man, and he stopped cold as he stared at it, gaping.

Cruiser...

**June, 1986**

Jessica opened her eyes slowly. Face could feel her lashes flutter against his chest. Disoriented, she pushed herself up, away from him and the blanket they were lying on, and took it all in. Warm, salty breeze, the quiet whisper of waves on the sand. She seemed startled by the darkness, but didn't speak. Instead she just rubbed her eyes and pushed a hand through her hair, trying to reacquaint herself with her surroundings.

Face watched her with a smile, one arm tucked under his head as he lay on his back. She was gorgeous, even more so when he considered the way she'd looked as she slept. Tucked into the cove on the far end of the beach, they were almost a mile from the nearest parking lot. Chances were slim anyone would come by. But even so, it took an impressive level of trust to sleep naked in his arms in such an exposed place, relying only on him to protect her.

"You okay?" he asked softly, reaching up with his other hand to stroke her arm reassuringly.

She looked down at him and blinked a few times. "I fell asleep."

"I know."

She hesitated a moment more, then smiled faintly, slowly lying back down beside him, head on his shoulder. She breathed deep and slid an arm across his chest, holding to him as she pressed in close. "Sorry."

"For what?"

She was quiet for a moment. Finally she looked up, locking eyes with him. "Nothing. Never mind."

"Hmm." She had nothing to be sorry for. Her insecurities were talking again. He wished like hell he could shut them up for good.

She nuzzled him gently as she put a leg over his, clinging to him. "Thank you for this. I needed..."

She trailed off, not finishing. He raised a brow as he tipped his head to look at her. She was uncomfortable, clinging to him. But she wasn't talking - not yet - and he didn't want to pry. He was patient enough to wait here all night until she decided in her own sweet time that she wanted to talk to him about it.

"I lied to you."

That wasn't what he'd been expecting. "About what?" he asked calmly. Whatever it was, he was damn sure it paled in comparison to some of the lies he'd told in his lifetime.

"I was a little more than casual acquaintances with Cruiser."

Face peered down at her, curiously. The statement seemed to be out of the clear blue, for one thing. It was nothing he didn't already know, for another. But the way she said it suggested that it was completely and totally what was bothering her.

"Yeah?" It was a token acknowledgement of her statement, but he wasn't quite sure what she was looking for, or how shocked he was supposed to be when he wasn't really shocked at all.

She laughed softly. "Of course you knew that. Why would I even think you didn't?"

"I thought we pretty well established it right up front," he recalled with a shrug. "And anyways, what does it matter?"

She hesitated. "Does it bother you?"

"Does what?"

"That I still talk to him?"

"Should it?"

Another long pause. Then, finally, she took a deep breath. "He called me today. He's coming to LA and wanted to see me."

Face frowned. For some reason, that just didn't bode well with him. Maybe it was the fear in her voice. "I take it you don't want to see him?"

"Not really. No." She pulled in closer to him, shivering slightly at the cool breeze on her naked skin. "I just... I want to stay here with you forever. In your arms. It's safe here."

He pulled her in close, protectively, and stroked a hand through her hair as he stared for a long moment up at the sky. "Why does Cruiser scare you, Jessie?"

She drew in a shaky breath. "Because I loved him. Like I love you. But wrong."

He glanced at her, brow raised. "I'm not quite sure what you mean by that." There was a chance he should be offended, but the way she was clinging to him like he was a life source seemed to negate that.

Her face flushed. He could see it clearly, even in the dim moonlight. She dropped her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, that... that totally came out wrong."

He watched her with quiet concern. "Jess, what did he do to you?" he finally asked, point blank. It was probably the only way he'd get an answer out of her, at this rate. And they'd danced around this issue for far too long.

She licked her lips, and hesitated for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up and stared at him again. "He lied."

"About what?"

"About everything. And I believed him."

Face frowned.

"I was so stupid, Face. I don't even want to think about how stupid I was to believe... everything he said to me. Every time he told me he loved me..."

"Jess..." He had to choose his words carefully. But there were only so many ways he could soften the blow. "We both know your track record with guys. Being lied to, believing they loved you..."

"He was different," she said firmly.

"Different how?"

She lowered her eyes. "I don't expect you to understand it. You've never been in love before. Never been _betrayed _by someone that you love and trust. But if..." She hesitated, squirming noticeably. "If I suddenly turned on you, and told the world what happens between the two of us in that safe place where there's no fear... wouldn't you be terrified of me?"

Terrified? He'd be so incredibly shut down that he wouldn't feel a goddamn thing ever again. That included terrified. The mere fact that it had taken eight years of knowing Jessica - seventeen if he counted Vietnam - for those feelings to finally force themselves through made him sure that it would _never _happen again in his life. But she wore her emotions on her sleeve. They'd been tromped on time and time again. This was something more than that. Something deeper.

"How, Jess?"

She took in a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about it."

He let it go, but frowned deeply as he considered all the reasons why she wouldn't want to talk about it. Finally, he brushed her hair back gently. "I wish you wouldn't talk to him. He has no right to hurt you now."

She lowered her eyes.

"You're mine, Jess. And you're safe with me."

She smiled faintly, and placed a few soft, warm kisses across his chest. "I know."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She pulled in close. "And I guess... well... for the record..." She looked up and met his eyes again. "You've seen a lot more of me than he ever could."

He watched her eyes as his hand found her hair and traced the strands. Whatever she'd shared with Cruiser, it didn't matter. If he wanted to come around where he wasn't welcome, Face would deal with that when it happened. There were certain things he was willing to go to prison for. Jessica was at the top of that list. But she needed to make the first step.

She tipped her head against his hand and nuzzled gently into it. "I love you, Face. And I love that I'm safe with you. And that you do things like..." She pulled away to glance around briefly, and gesture to the beach. "Like this. For me."

He smiled back. "I love doing it for you."

She moved up and kissed his lips lightly. "I know I don't have a whole lot to offer you - you have everything. The world on a string. But what I do have... it all belongs to you."

He let out a soft laugh at that. "I think the world may have me on a string, instead of the other way around."

She smiled. "I don't think so."

He kissed her slowly, running his hand gently over her hair as he let it linger for a long, sweet moment. "You're the only thing in this world I want, Jess," he whispered.

For once, it was the honest to God truth. With the exception of his team - which didn't even enter into consideration because they were a given; he needed them like he needed air - she was the one thing in the world that wasn't meaningless and trivial, easy come, easy go. The one thing that was truly selfish for him, and the one thing he truly valued.

She smiled. "Do you have any idea how it feels to hear you say that?"

He pulled her over top of him as he kissed her. "I love you, Jess. More than I ever thought I could."

"I love you, too." As he pulled back, she caught his mouth for a slow, deep, relaxing kiss, then dropped her head until her lips just barely brushed his ear. "More than you may ever know."


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

By the time the plane touched down at the tiny little private airport in Iceland, Murdock's mood could only be described as "elated." Hannibal smiled as he watched him bounce out of the cockpit like he had springs in his feet. Part of it was probably the thrill of flying - the same as it always was. Part of it had to be the thrill of what it was they were actually doing - telling the man who'd threatened them all that he could take a long walk off a short pier if he thought he was going to be able to control them. They were in his service willingly, not because they had to be. There was, in fact, a smug sense of satisfaction that came with proving that fact.

"Oh, hey! Look!" Hannibal glanced up and saw Murdock sitting on the edge of the desk, flipping through Stockwell's rolodex. "It's the Japanese prime minister's home phone number. Let's crank call him!"

Hannibal went back to reading with a smile on his face. Stockwell had files on any number of names that Hannibal was surprised to see. Maggie Sullivan, Kid Harmon... He was hoping that the thousands of names he didn't know in the file cabinets signified that this wasn't an obsession he'd limited to his study of _them_. Just how many operatives did he have in the field, anyway? That would be a good question to have answered.

"Hello? This is Hunt Stockwell. I know it's three o'clock in the morning but I am calling to warn you that Godzilla is coming! Good bye!"

Hannibal grinned as the pilot hung up the phone. "_Nice_, Murdock."

"He always goes for Tokyo," Murdock answered with a shrug. But he was smiling, too. Clearly, he was pleased.

"Just don't cause any international incidents, huh?" Face said offhandedly, not taking his eyes off the papers he was thumbing through.

"Are you kidding? Who starts an international incident over a harmless little prank call?" Murdock sounded far more innocent than he really was as he spun the rolodex again. "The head of MI-5! Excellent!"

Hannibal thumbed through the names he recognized, just enough to determine how much Stockwell thought he knew on any one of them. But he'd ultimately gone looking for two files in particular. He found Ray "Boston" Brenner's quickly, and set it aside as he looked for the other one he needed. It took him only a few moments to come to the rather concerning realization that there _was _no file in the cabinet for James "Cruiser" Harrison.

"Face, do you have Cruiser's file?"  
"No." Face glanced up only briefly.

"Who's Cruiser?" Frankie asked.

Hannibal ignored him, instead keeping his eyes on Face. "Have you _seen _Cruiser's file?"

"I didn't look. Why?"

"Because it's missing. I have Boston, but not Cruiser's."

Face shrugged. "Haven't seen it."

"This is your Queen." The English accent in falsetto made Frankie and Hannibal both do a double take. "I want the beef eaters sent out to find Prince Albert. Someone has him in a can, and then have the beef eaters get new uniforms because those old ones are terrible. And the royal guards may now hit anyone who tries to make them laugh. And last but not least, from now on I shall be referred to as double-oh-one. Good day!"

"You're not _really _calling these people, are you?" Frankie asked in wide-eyed awe as Murdock hung up the phone.

Murdock beamed. "Of course I am! What would be the fun of crank calling if you don't call? That just doesn't even make any sense."

"Alright, Murdock," Hannibal said, nodding in the direction of the file cabinets. "Grab a file and start reading. We've got a lot to get through and not a whole lot of time to do it."

Murdock grabbed the rolodex off the desk and slipped it inside his jacket with a wicked grin. "I'll just take this for later."

Brenner's file included what Hannibal had expected it to. Given that Ray had been thrown right into the middle of the fray between Hannibal and the CIA, years after Vietnam, there would no doubt be some mention of his name in those Agency files. Stockwell had easy access to those, and Hannibal wasn't surprised to see them. But in a way, he was surprised to see that there was nothing on Brenner from the time between Vietnam and that single incident, nor was there anything following.

That wasn't a bad thing. They had cut contact with Ray for a reason. But with as thorough as Stockwell was, Hannibal would have at least expected to see a death certificate.

**September, 1983**

"Face, you alright?"

Face glanced up, startled, from the passenger seat of Ray Brenner's truck. BA and Murdock were in the back, Amy and Trish were safe at home. It was as good a time as any to make small talk, even if the faraway look in Face's eyes _wasn't _indicative of something more.

"Just fine, Colonel."

Hannibal held back a quiet snort of laughter. "What's the matter, kid?"

It was an invitation, not an order. Face could have easily waved off the concern. Instead, he gave a deep, heartfelt sigh. "How much do you think she knew?"

"About what?"

Face hesitated a moment. Hannibal gave him time. He was in no rush, and Face knew exactly how much time they had to work with before they made it to the repair shop to pick up BA's stripped van. There would be no talking then, Hannibal was sure.

"You know, it looks really pretty in a frame," Face said quietly. "Class As, green beret..."

He trailed off, but Hannibal didn't respond. He simply waited for him to continue.

"Can you imagine coming back to the real world and... nothing's been declassified. Trying to go back to the life you had before like nothing happened. Back to your hometown, your family, and..."

There was nothing for Hannibal to say to that. He remained quiet as he felt Face's eyes turn toward him.

"We never talk about it, but we never have to. I know what you're capable of. Can you imagine living with someone who didn't? Someone innocent?"

Hannibal stared out at the road in front of him and slowly shook his head. "No."

Face watched him for a moment more, then turned to look out the front of the car again. "You know, I'm surprised he didn't kill him."

"Who?"

"The guy who grabbed Trish. The way he must feel about her - must have _felt_ - makes me wonder just what he was aiming to hit with those bullets."

"Oh, come on, Lieutenant. You knew him as well as I did." Hannibal exchanged glances with Face, and knowing smiles. "If he was aiming to kill those boys, they would all be dead."

*X*X*X*

"Looks like he's mostly got contact information on this computer," Murdock said. He was finally starting to calm down. "For basic facts and figures, it's probably not going to give you anything more than what's in the files."

He typed in Frankie's name, and turned to grin at him as the information typed itself out of the screen. "Hey, look, Frankie. Your new name is Empress 12. Don't that just make you feel all warm and gooey inside?"

Frankie looked up, clearly not amused. "No."

"Can you look up the Abels, Murdock?" Hannibal asked. "Give us a better idea of who may or may not be a threat."

"Sure can," Murdock answered. "But the only information on them is basic stuff."

BA groaned, and Murdock cast him a brief glance before looking back at the screen. "Oh, and by the way, it's spelled E-L. As in Cain and Abel. And because I know you're going to ask, there's Cains, too. Lots of 'em."

"How many?" Hannibal asked.

"I ain't flyin'..."

"Lots. Over a hundred. They've got info on the pages like location and language. Looks like they're international agents of some kind or another."

"And the Abels?"

"Twenty files but some of the pages are blank."

"And what is Empress?"

"Dunno. But it's what we are."

"Where am I?" Fully awake, BA was trying to get out of the seat. Luckily, his wrists were fastened to it. "This plane better not be in the air!"

"Gee, I hope not," Murdock said, "'cause I'm not flyin' it."

BA stared at him, not sure what to say to that.

"We're not flying, BA," Hannibal said. He was rather impressed with how accurate they were getting that sodium pentothal. Not too long and not too short; he'd woken up right on time. "You were so upset about the possibility, you had one of your anxiety blackouts, and we decided we'd stay put, for your sake."

BA wasn't buying it. "Then why'd you tie me to a chair!"

"Because we knew when you woke up, you'd _think _we flew, and we didn't want you to kill us all before you realized you were wrong." He pushed away from the desk and walked over to untie BA's arms. "Go look out the window. You'll see. We're at the airport."

"You better not be lyin' to me, Hannibal."

Hannibal gestured to the window. BA stared out at an airport that looked very much like any other airport in the darkness. Still not quite sure he trusted his own eyes, he looked back and forth from Hannibal to Murdock, back to Hannibal, to Face. Everyone but Hannibal was thoroughly engrossed in their work.

Hannibal handed him a folder with a smile. "Your file, Sergeant. Enjoy."

**April, 1969**

Go to CCN.

That was what Chris Rapport, his teammate from Phase Two training in Fort Bragg, had told him. "You're gonna get killed no matter where you go," Chris had said. "Why not have some fun while you do it?"

Sergeant Bosco Baracus was more than ready to "have some fun." It had been eighteen months of basic, infantry, airborne, and finally Special Forces training. When he'd finally arrived in Nha Trang, the seaside resort town that headquartered 5th Special Forces, his commo training was going to put him at a desk as a radio operator if he didn't find a way out of it. He despised the thought of a desk job.

If he'd had his way, he wouldn't have gone into communications in the first place - he would've gone the route of demolition or even weapons. But though he'd presented his case well, the colonel who'd assigned him to his Phase Two training had simply nodded and declared, "I think you'll make a much better commo man. You're going to commo school."

Commo school hadn't been easy - Morse code training had taken longer than he'd anticipated and he'd learned to assemble and disassemble at least a hundred different kinds of radios. He'd memorized all of the algebraic equations to determine the correct antenna lengths and frequencies and how to triangulate his signal to his target. But it wasn't the kind of action he'd been hoping for. The kind of action that, he'd been told, could be found at Command and Control North.

Unfortunately, the extent of his knowledge about CCN was limited to those few words from Chris. "Don't ask me about it 'cause I can't tell you," Chris had said. "Just go to CCN."

Three days later, he was sitting in an empty CCN conference room, staring at a bright red curtain that covered most of the wall in front of him. Neither he nor the other two nervous, silent men in the room with him could tell what was behind it. The minutes seemed like hours.

Finally, the door opened. In walked a man in jungle fatigues and a signature green beret and... sandals? Baracus sat up a little straighter, not sure what to expect. "Gentlemen," the man greeted as he reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Joe Carpen. And you are not in Kansas anymore."

Out of the corner of his eye, Baracus saw the two men beside him exchange glances. What exactly did he mean by that, anyway? Baracus didn't take his eyes off of the Lieutenant Colonel. He'd left Kansas a long time ago, and he wasn't nervous. If he could've been convinced that he wanted anything other than hardcore Special Forces, the Phase One trainers would've talked him out of it long ago. They had certainly tried. Miles and miles of forced marches through swamps with nothing to eat but what they could kill or scavenge, mad dashes up and down hills with a hundred pounds of equipment, days that turned into weeks with no sleep... By the time he'd made it to his final exercise - fifteen miles across rough terrain in ten hours - he'd been so sleep deprived he had hallucinated most of the way to the rally point. But his team had made it with two minutes to spare.

His thoughts were suddenly hijacked by the dramatic removal of the red curtain, and Lieutenant Colonel Carpen stood back, lighting his cigarette. Baracus immediately scanned for familiar names on the map - for towns and bases in South Vietnam. It took several minutes for him to realize why he saw none: they were all on the far right side of the map. He was staring at a map of Cambodia and Laos.

"At any one time, we have about ten teams on our playing field," Carpen explained. "Mostly, we're out there to gather intelligence. But make no mistake, men." Carpen's look darkened. "This is no-holds-barred jungle fuckin' warfare. And we're the ones who are out there to do to them exactly what they do to us."

*X*X*X*

The excited commotion that normally accompanied a chopper returning to the base was not present as the Bright Light team set down and climbed out. The One-Zeros had gathered, and welcomed the visiting team. But the joyous reception was not the same. It was far more somber, and quieter.

"You okay, BA?"

Baracus turned. Still unfamiliar with the nickname the other soldiers had given him, he almost hadn't responded at all. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure?" Richard "Ghost" Axton asked, stepping up beside him.

Ten years BA's senior, Ghost was already on his second tour in Vietnam. Though he'd never talked much to him, BA had developed a deep respect for the man. After being badly wounded in a Hatchet force, he'd been taken to the medevac hospital in Pleiku just two weeks ago. Several days later, he'd gone AWOL from the hospital and hitched a ride on a chopper back to Kontum. Why should he stay in a hospital, he'd justified, when he trusted his own field medic to change his bandages and remove his stitches?

"I'll be fine," BA said again.

The offensive smell of a lit cigarette made BA wince and look away, but he followed Ghost's gesture as he pointed to the small crowd surrounding the Huey. "You know who that is?"

BA shook his head as he studied the unfamiliar men the One-Zeros were leading toward the NCO club. "Should I?"

"That's Hannibal Smith."

"Who's that?"

Ghost chuckled. "He's the only colonel we have on recon."

BA frowned. "A colonel on recon?"

"Yeah, some insane shit, ain't it?" Ghost took a deep drag from his cigarette. "The man's crazy, too. He can't hold onto a team for more than a week or two."

"What?"

"Soon as he comes back, the whole team quits."

BA stared. With all that he'd gone through to get to this place, he'd be damned if _anything _would make him quit. "Why they do that?" he demanded.

Ghost shook his head. "Like I said. The man's crazy. You ever go out there with him, you'll see what I mean. But he's got two things goin' for him." He paused to take another drag. "He's damn good at what he does... and he's friends with General Westman."

"If he's so good, why's everyone quit his team?"

Ghost grinned. "I dunno, BA. Why don't you ask him?"

*X*X*X*

"I had a dog and his name was Blue..."

BA sat in the corner of the NCO club, still and quiet while the rest of the soldiers - including the famed Hannibal Smith - offered the song as a memory to the men of RT Bolivia... and every other SOG man who'd been lost.

"Bet you five dollars, he's a good dog, too..."

His eyes lowered to the cup of red Kool-Aid he'd been nursing as the rest of the men lost themselves in liquor and beer, drowning their sorrow in the haze of drunkenness. If he were anyone else, he'd be doing the same thing.

"Hey, Blue - you're a good dog you..."

As the long list of names closed out the song, BA stood. He'd spent most of the day in the empty team room, staring at the personal effects of dead men and thinking of their families. They would be told that the soldiers died on some routine excursion in South Vietnam, not in Cambodia. After all, there was no official US presence in Cambodia, and they had to tell them something. The bodies had been recovered by the Bright Light team - led by Smith. They were barely recognizable.

Grown men, hardened soldiers, wept as they sang. BA kept his eyes down, heading for the door. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by all this sadness and mourning. He'd paid his respects in the only way that any of them knew how. With the song over, he just wanted to be alone.

Only once he was safely outside in the pale glow from the full moon did he feel the tears sting his eyes. It wasn't just the loss of the team. It wasn't even the fact that he'd talked to them just hours before they'd been killed, or that he knew things about the people back home who'd be getting the word tomorrow that their sons and brothers and fathers were gone. Even more than that, it was the fact that it could've been him out there. It didn't seem right. Didn't seem fair.

"You okay, soldier?"

The voice startled him, and he immediately blinked a few times to clear his eyes. When he turned, he immediately found himself face to face with none other than Colonel Hannibal Smith. "M'fine," he answered. He was really beginning to wish people would stop asking him that. "Sir."

"You got out of there pretty fast," Hannibal observed, hands buried deep in his pockets. "Was that your team?"

BA swallowed hard and looked away. "Yeah. Was supposed to be. I was takin' the place of one of the guys on there who was goin' home. He got a little girl back home. Ain't never seen her yet." He shut his eyes at the words coming out of his mouth - words that sounded too hopeful when there was no hope. "Well, he never did."

"I'm sorry."

BA turned to look at him. This man had led the Bright Light team. He would know the answer to the question BA had been wanting to ask all day. "How'd they die?" Now, as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he immediately regretted them. Did he really even want to know?

Hannibal hesitated momentarily before explaining. "They were followed from the LZ," he said quietly. "They'd left a trail and the NVA trackers caught up with them. The enemy surrounded them and opened fire at point blank range. Not one of them had a chance to get a single shot off."

BA swallowed hard, and shut his eyes tight, willing himself not to weep in front of this unfamiliar senior officer.

"You're new here, aren't you?" Hannibal asked.

BA nodded, eyes still closed.

"How many drops?"

"That should've been my first."

Hannibal was quiet. Finally, he sighed. "Then let me give you some advice."

Very slowly, BA raised his eyes and turned to look at the older man. In the dim light from the moon overhead, he could see that his expression was very serious. "When you're on the ground, the path behind you is more important than the path in front of you. You can change where you're going if someone gets in your way. But you can't change where you've been."

BA nodded, and filed those words into a place in his brain where he would always have access to them. "I'll remember that," he promised.

Without another word, Hannibal clapped a hand on his shoulder, then headed off in the direction of the barracks. BA watched him go, playing his words over and over in his mind. The deaths of his teammates meant nothing if he couldn't learn from their mistakes. They'd all had more training - and far more experience - than he'd had. None of them had been ready for that drop. Whether because they were ignorant or simply careless, the trail they'd left behind had resulted in their deaths. BA had to be ready; he had to be prepared. He had to listen and learn to gain anything that any soldier could offer him. Ultimately, he knew nothing. All of his training had only given him the most basic education that he needed to even be here. It wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

BA was inspecting the panel on the wall of the jet. "This controls the monitors," he snarled, standing by the second panel on the wall. Hannibal glanced briefly at him. "You said you got tapes. I'll get 'em to play."

"Tapes are in the back." Hannibal held out one of the sheets from the folder in front of him. "See if you can find this one."

BA grimaced as he grabbed the paper from Hannibal, then stalked toward the back of the plane.

Face tuned his surroundings out, staring instead at the closed file for a long moment. He'd already been through it; the file on Jessica had nothing in it that was particularly threatening. There was nothing on her that was any more recent than 1974, when she'd moved to Los Angeles. He'd checked thoroughly. Neither of the kids had a separate file; their information was lumped in with hers. If Stockwell knew their relation - of course he knew their relation; how could he know all of this and _not _know their relation? - he certainly hadn't pursued it. That was strange, in light of the other things he had pursued. Was it possible that he didn't know what she meant to him? If he didn't, it wasn't really all that surprising. Years and years had passed when even he hadn't known what she meant to him...

**April, 1986**

It wasn't often that Face came during actual visiting hours as an actual visitor. There was nothing overtly wrong with him - no injuries to speak of and he was well dressed as usual. Except he looked like he hadn't slept in about a week. He waited for the orderly to leave, then forced a smile in Murdock's direction. To anyone else, it might have been convincing. But he didn't expect to convince Murdock.

"What's up, Faceman?" Murdock asked, brow furrowed as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was clearly up.

"Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You mentioned they'd changed your dosage again..."

That was an excuse - Face-speak for "I needed a safe place." Murdock nodded slowly, treading lightly. Until he knew more, it was best just to be relaxed and let Face lead.

"I'm doin' great," Murdock answered. "It'll take a few days to really feel the effects."

Face pulled out the desk chair and turned it around to face Murdock before sitting down. "So you're good?"

"Yup. Right as rain, Facey."

Silence. It was strange to see Face hesitating at conversation. Murdock took a deep breath, and a lesson from years worth of therapy as he continued. "So... how are things with you?"

"Good..."

Another long silence. Murdock was just considering what to ask next when Face spoke up. "Jessica's in love."

Ah. Yep. That would be enough to make Face stammer.

Face sighed deeply, and put a hand through his hair. "I don't even know what to say to her."

"Well, does he sound like a good guy?"

"Who?"

"The guy she's in love with."

Face laughed slightly, without humor. "She's in love with _me_, Murdock."

Murdock choked on air and his own spit. "Oh. Oh man. So... good guy... but not so much for the settlin' down and white picket fence. How'd that happen?"

Face shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea. But I'm sure as hell not what she's looking for."

"So what are you gonna do?"

"I don't even know anymore." He shut his eyes, holding his head in his hands. "This isn't something I've got a hell of a lot of experience with. I thought I was safe with her. I've never led her on. At least, not intentionally. In fact, I've tried _not _to."

Murdock sighed. "Face, you've had kids with her. You're a decent guy. Has she ever said she expects anything more from you?"

"I don't know what she expects. As far as the kids go, she's never pressed me for anything. She just wants me to feel things that I don't... I _can't _feel. And I don't want to hurt her, but this... it's not what she's looking for. And sooner or later she's going to realize that and she _will_ be hurt. I don't even know how to avoid that at this point."

"Have you tried actually, you know, talking to her? Tellin' her that?"

"We've discussed it. In detail. And I think discussing it, I actually made things worse."

"She does know you're not exactly able to settle down and play happy families right now?"

"She knows the situation." Face sighed deeply. "How the hell do I get myself into these situations?"

"You know, what gets me is that you don't get into these situations with women a whole lot more often."

"Great. That makes me feel so much better."

Murdock smiled faintly as Face walked back and sat on the edge of the bed. "Wish I had some booze to offer you. This feels like a six-pack or a bottle of scotch conversation."

"I don't want to drink," Face said, shaking his head. "That's probably the last thing I need right now."

Murdock watched him quietly, letting him make the moves for this conversation.

"I don't get into these situations more often because I'm normally pretty good at clarifying what I am and am _not_ willing to get into. But she... complicates things."

He wanted a solution. Murdock wished he had one.

"Okay, so... you've told her you can't and you've told her you don't. Have you told her you_ won't_?"

Face turned to look at him, Concerned and slightly pained. "That's... easier said than done, Murdock."

Murdock sat upright and groaned a little. "That meant it isn't that you won't because you would you just don't and think you can't. Why am I thinkin' this conversation would make more sense if I was drinkin'?"

Face was staring at him, saying nothing.

"Do you feel... something more than usual for her?"

"She's a friend, Murdock. And quite frankly, she's the only person outside of this team that I've worked at maintaining a friendship with not just because she's..." He trailed of, and gestured loosely. "You know."

"The mother of your children?" Murdock subsituted.

"Yeah. That."

Murdock laughed. "You know, someday you're gonna be able to say that and when the world doesn't suddenly turn to a landscape of fire and brimstone you're gonna be shocked as hell."

Face glared at him, then looked away. "I'm not sleeping with her," he said.

"And what is that? Some kinda litmus test?"

Face looked at him questioningly.

"You don't care about the women you sleep with. What makes you think you'd sleep with the women you care about? Makes perfect sense to me."

Face opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

"You know, Face, you're gonna hurt her someway. What you have to figure out is which way you wanna go."

"I just don't want to break her heart."

"And youthink you're gonna get away from that?"

"She's so..." He sighed, irritated, and stood up. Before he managed to continue, he was pacing. "Emotionally, she just... latches onto things like she _needs _them and she just..." He turned and locked eyes with murdock, completely sincere. "I don't know what it's like to need somebody like that."

"Yeah, maybe. But see... you know what it's like to be needed. And needy ain't always weak."

"I've been there for her. But I can't pretend to be something that I'm not."

Murdock raised a brow.

Face rolled his eyes at the overgeneralization. "I mean, I can and I do all the time but not..."

"In an actual real for goodness relationship?" Murdock grinned. "Does she actually know you, do you think?"

Face was struck by the question. He spent a moment considering it. "I don't know... I've never really thought about it."

"Now see, maybe that's the problem. She's not asking you to be someone you're not. She's asking the Templeton Peck she thinks she knows to be who she thinks he is."

That thought made him squirm. "Jesus, Murdock..."

"Hey, don't put the blame on me, amigo. You have so many masks sometimes I think even you don't know which one's your real face. You can't blame some of us lesser mortals if sometimes we get a little confused."

He tucked his legs up to sit Indian style, knees bouncing.

"I can only tell you what all occurs to me. But hey, what do I know? I'm a permanent guest of the psych ward."

Face stared at him for a moment, then sighed as he looked out the window. "I should go."

Murdock's face fell. "Already?"

Face studied him for a moment. "Do you need anything? You want me to get you out tonight?"

Murdock flexed his hands, staring at them like they belonged to someone else. "I'm just antsy. An' I think that's prob'ly a good time to be in here unless I hafta be elsewhere. Jus'... lonesome, kinda, sometimes, you know?"

Face watched him steadily, and gave a slight smile. "Lonesome sounds like more of a reason to go see your girlfriend than to stay locked up in your room." He grabbed his jacket off the chair and put it over his shoulders. "I'll come back at shift change. That one nurse is working tonight, isn't she? With the red hair? She's _very _easy to uh... talk to."

"Come back after late shift? So I've had the meds? I don' wanna be jumping outta my skin with Kelly... or in some car with you, fer that matter. God Almighty, I hate bein'... like my skin's too tight or something."

"Well, this shift has already seen me. Best if I don't come back twice in one day. But I'll try to get here right at seven. Before they pass out meds. If not, just... create a diversion." Face smirked. "I'm sure we'll be able to use it somehow."

Murdock snorted. "Right. See you later, Faceman."

Face gave him a smile as he reached for the door and let himself out.

*X*X*X*

"Face?"

Jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of Hannibal's voice, he looked up and realized he was being watched. From the look on Hannibal's face, he wondered just how long he'd been studying him.

"Colonel?"

"We only have a couple of hours here," Hannibal said patiently. "And you've been staring at that spot on the floor for the past fifteen minutes."

"Sorry." Face closed the folder. He'd been all the way through it, and he was satisfied that there was nothing there that threatened Jessica. Rising to his feet, he walked back to the cabinet and put it back where it belonged.

"Hey, think we should rearrange all his folders for him?" Murdock suggested. "Maybe swap contents on a few?"

"No, leave them alone," Hannibal answered. "We're not doing this just to antagonize him."

Murdock beamed. "No, but antagonizing him is a fortunate side effect."

Face flipped through the folders, but he wasn't really looking at them. Instead, his mind was wandering. Could Stockwell really _not _know about Jessica?

**September, 1986**

The room was pitch black. Deprived of the sight of her, Face relied instead on the feel and smell and taste of her. Sliding his hands under her legs, he pulled them up and over his shoulders as his tongue slid inside of her, pulling her taste into his mouth, completely silent as he stroked her slowly, deeply. Obeying the orders he'd given her, she didn't make a sound, even as the muscles in her thighs trembled.

Sucking and teasing with his teeth, flicking her sensitive nerves with his tongue, he felt the tension, tasted the subtle change in her fluids, and smiled as he slowly caressed her sides, stomach, legs. Careful of her overly sensitive nerves, he traced his tongue over her, then gently maneuvered out from underneath her.

"Turn around," he whispered. "On your knees."

Her shakiness made it hard to comply. But still, she made no sound, even as his hands slid to her hips, holding her. Pulling her back, he thrust forward, buried to the hilt in one hot, smooth stroke. He didn't make a sound, just a barely staggered breath.

Complete silence, enforced silence, surrounded them as he moved in and out of her tight body. The loss of two senses made him focus on the other three. Every contraction around him, he felt. Her scent surrounded him. The warm and inviting taste of her was still fresh on his tongue. His grip on her tightened, pushing and pulling her, controlling her completely.

When he came, it was soundless. Hips jerking erratically, he filled her. He felt her spasms, the way her body shook. Braced forward on her arms, she remained as still as she could as he let the warmth and relaxation wash over them. Finally, slowly, he withdrew, hands running over her. With gentle hands, he turned her onto her back.

"Easy, Jessie..."

He spread her arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses everywhere his fingertips touched. As she trembled with silent pleasure, he spent long moments kissing her, unhurried and gentle. By the time he was through, braced over her again with his lips against hers, his hands had been everywhere - teasing her with light, flitting touches.

This time when he entered her, it was slow and gentle. He dropped his mouth to her neck, kissing her slowly, drawing her into his rhythm. As he rocked with her, he set his lips to her ear.

"Next time I'm gone when you need me here... alone in the dark... remember how this feels."

He drew her earlobe gently between his teeth as his pace increased, angling his hips to brush that one electric spot that he knew so well.

"Turn off all the lights, make it dark and silent... and remember me inside of you... making love to you... making your whole body sing for me. Will you remember that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He kissed her temple, tasting the saline from her silent tears. "I love you, Jessica."

"I love you, too."

He slid his arms beneath her, holding her tight, kissing her everywhere his mouth could reach. She was his, wrapped safely in his arms, surrounded by his protective embrace. As he gave a few harder, faster thrusts inside of her, he groaned into her ear, "Let me hear you, Jessie."

"Face..."

*X*X*X*

"Face!"

Startled, he damn near jumped at the sound of Frankie's voice. Shaking his head to clear away the memories, he looked up. "What?"

"What's the matter with you, man?"

"Nothing," he lied, turning his attention back to the filing cabinet. He realized he didn't even know what he was looking for and stepped back, letting Frankie step in to put his folder back.

Running his hand through his hair, Face sighed. "I think I need to get some air."

Hannibal eyed him for a long moment. He wasn't happy with the idea; Face knew that without even looking at him. But he didn't protest.

Strategically avoiding eye contact, Face walked around the desk he was sitting at, opened the hatch, and lowered the steps, moving out into the cool night air to sit on the bottom one. Damn it, what the hell was he doing here?


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

"They did _what_?" Stockwell couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"The control tower says they took off at 2:13 this morning. They had no idea that the plane had been hijacked."

Carla's voice was calm, but the information she was hitting him with was entirely too much to handle this early in the morning. He rubbed his forehead at he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 5:22. It would've woken him in another forty minutes if his phone hadn't rung first.

"Alright. Find that plane and find out who we have available to intercept them, wherever they went. Then I want the entire security team at the compound assembled. I will be there in thirty minutes."

"Yes, General."

He was dressed, shaved, and out the door in fifteen minutes, grabbing a much-needed cup of coffee on the way to the compound. He drove himself; there was no sense in waking his chauffer. By the time he arrived at the compound, just before the sun rose over the horizon, the lights were on. He entered the front door and was immediately greeted by the sight of a dozen men, all staring at him with adequate concern and fear for their jobs.

Carla met him just inside. "Abel eight and thirteen were guarding the jet," she said softly, too quiet for the others to hear. "They're missing. They may have been taken aboard. We're still trying to determine where the plane was headed, but we should know soon."

He nodded briefly to Carla then clasped his hands behind his back walked into the middle of the room. "Gentlemen."

His voice as clipped and cool as he turned and watched the group of nervous men shift and fidget under his gaze. Somehow the team had slipped away from a dozen of his security agents, not even forty-eight hours after they arrived. It was beside the fact that Stockwell was much more concerned by how Colonel Smith and his team had managed to overpower two of his agents so fast and so efficiently that they hadn't even been able to alert their back up. It was beyond unacceptable. Things would change. Starting here.

"Which one of you would care to explain to me how four men managed to get past _all_ twelve of you?"

They looked at each other. They looked at the floor. They looked anywhere but at him. Like chastised children, they shifted anxiously. Finally, it was Abel 2 who spoke up. "We um... We didn't notice they were gone, sir. They left... very quietly."

"There was nothing on any of the video or audio feeds," Abel 4 added. "You can see the tapes for yourself! It's like they just disappeared."

"They didn't go past my post at the front."

"And I was patrolling the rear perimeter. I didn't see them."

"They must have left on foot because they didn't take a vehicle."

He watched them stumble over their words, sealing their fates a little tighter with each sentence. He had structured his security with great care and consideration to obtain the desired results with minimum error and maximum efficiency. Listing to the bumbling excuse for a report made it clear to him that he had failed. Nothing angered him as much as failure.

Keeping face impassive, he looked them over as they finally stopped. "A quarter of a million dollars in high tech electronic surveillance equipment and the only thing you can report is that they were very quiet?"

Turning his back on them he walked towards the fireplace. The Abels were the bottom tier of his force, the least experienced. They operated on a minimum three-to-one ratio. Mistakes, errors, slip ups were expected and prepared for. But this level of mistake was simply unacceptable. He hadn't imagined that it would be so easy for the team to blow past all of them. Even at the bottom of his organization, they were the top of their class from wherever he'd gotten them.

"Every one of you was briefed on what these men were capable of. So I am quite sure you were operating at one hundred percent last night. Am I correct?"

None of them spoke. They all just stared. He let the silence linger, waiting for an answer. Nobody had one. After a few minutes of entirely uncomfortable silence, Carla reentered the room and stepped in close. "General, they landed the plane at a small airport in Iceland. I can have them ground it, but that will mean an official report. We don't have any operatives _in _Iceland, and the nearest who's available unless you pull someone off of their assignment, is still going to be five hours away by plane. How should we proceed?"

"Have a secure international line patched through to the living room phone," Stockwell ordered.

"Yes, Sir."

"All of you are to turn in your weapons," Stockwell said, turning his attention back to the men. "You will report for mandatory retraining at oh-four-hundred hours tomorrow."

It was a stall tactic. They all needed to be replaced. But it was no easy feat to do that on short notice, and he wasn't about to let his anger make irrational decisions for him. He had a second team that could pick up the slack caused by his restructuring, but they were not enough to provide twenty-four hour coverage of his security. Ultimately, he needed new security - more experienced and tested agents. Perhaps even female agents. They did, after all, seem to have a particular weakness for the fairer sex. It was something he could use. And he'd damn well better use it. He needed all of the advantages he could get against Hannibal Smith.

***X*X*X***

"Oh lookie here, Hannibal," Murdock interrupted. "He done got a file on Colonel Cuyet. Now ain't that just convenient?"

Still holding onto the file, Murdock went to the back, passing BA on his return. BA had a tape of his own in hand. "This tape say 'A-Team' on it," he announced as he put it into the player.

Hannibal looked up as BA hit one of the buttons on the wall and the image came up on all three screens. Involuntarily, his eyes widened. It was one thing to have dug up paperwork on them. It was quite another to have that kind of clear video surveillance.

BA growled audibly, low in his throat like an animal defending itself from a threat as he saw what was on the tape. Murdock returned, empty handed, in time to stare in jaw-dropped horror at the screen. "How in the hell...?"

Hannibal's brow furrowed at the image of BA on the screen, in a golf cart. That video had been shot up close. Who the hell had shot that? Just how long had Stockwell had an eye on him?

"Where was that shot?"

"That's Richter's club," Murdock answered confidently.

Hannibal took in a slow, calming breath. He had been watching them for _that _long? The thought was shocking, downright appalling, and thoroughly concerning. He'd always considered himself careful about being caught in surveillance. Not that he really avoided it; it happened and ultimately, it was no big deal. If they were under the gun, it was for much better reasons than being caught on camera. But he liked to at least be _aware_ of it.

"That footage is too close and too clear to have been shot with a surveillance camera," he said. "Plus the angle is all wrong."

"Not to mention that there's no surveillance cameras in the middle of a golf course," Face added dryly.

BA's frown deepened, as did the lines on his forehead. "Hey man, they got some serious high tech surveillance equipment. More than military grade. Development phase maybe."

Hannibal glanced at BA, then back at the file in front of him. He had no problem taking his word for it. BA read mechanical journals for fun and relaxation. If he said this equipment was higher grade than military, that left experimental. Government. CIA, FBI, NSA and god knows who else. They all had think tanks to develop cutting edge spy toys.

Hannibal was not surprised when the sound of the phone ringing interrupted him. He glanced at it, away from the TV screen and the surveillance footage that had been gathered at the Westwood VA hospital. Stockwell had damn well done his research.

Ever so casually, he reached over and picked up the phone, still watching the monitor. "I was wondering how long it would take you to call."

"Good morning, Colonel Smith." That neutral, controlled tone had Hannibal immediately smiling. It was the sound of a man who didn't know the safest way to approach his situation. "I must confess that you have me at a loss. I was under the impression that you had _agreed_ to the terms of your contract and were to begin fulfilling your end of the agreement."

Hannibal grinned, but kept his voice very patient, even patronizing. "Now, General, I'm _very_ sure that it nowhere stated in the terms of our agreement that we could not steal your jet and take it to Iceland." He was pretty sure Stockwell would know by now where the jet was. Offering that information was merely a way of playing nice.

"And I am certain that your contract states you are to live at the compound and that you are to be available to me upon my request."

"We are living at the compound." Hannibal couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. "Think of this as a... midnight stroll."

Stockwell paused for a long moment. "Well, in that case, since it is well past midnight, I expect to see you returned within the next three hours."

Hannibal checked his watch to make note of the time. Three hours was just long enough to fly back. But he wasn't quite ready to pack up yet. "We'll be on our way shortly," he offered. "We just have a few loose ends to tie up."

"Excellent." There was a brief pause. "Oh, one more thing Colonel."

"Yes?"

"This will not happen again. Have a pleasant flight."

Hannibal hung up the phone with a smile and glanced around. "Alright, guys, we'll need to be out of here in the next hour. BA, if you're gonna make that phone call, I suggest you do it now."

"Phone call?" BA asked, momentarily confused. "What phone call?"

Hannibal raised a brow, waiting for him to put the pieces together.

"Oh yeah... _That _phone call."

BA actually smiled.

***X*X*X***

It was harder than she ever would have imagined to pick up and move on after the death of her son. It was one thing to lose a husband, but it was simply unnatural to lose a child. Every day, she made sure to sit up and put her feet on the floor just as soon as she was aware of being awake. If she gave herself even a few minutes to lie still in her bed, she would never find the strength to face the day. And too many days had been lost already, lying in her bed with only spent tears to show for it.

She was exhausted. Friends had surrounded her and offered what support they could. She hadn't cooked a meal for herself for a full week after the execution. That word - even the thought of it - brought tears to her eyes every time. She didn't want to picture it. She didn't even want to know that it had happened. She didn't want to know how. She didn't want to move on, but she didn't want to stay here, either - trapped inside this hell. She didn't want anything except the chance to hold her baby again.

She didn't think she would ever stop wanting that. It burned in the heart of every mother. And it would more than likely be the death of her. What more did she have worth living for? There was no legacy to continue, no one to be strong for, no love to embrace. All that she had was the necessity of getting up, making tea, eating food, staring out the window, and going back to bed. What sort of life was this?

The phone was ringing. For a long moment, she considered just letting it ring. There was no one she wanted to talk to right now. The only thing that made her finally stand and go to the kitchen to answer it was habit. But she didn't rush. She was in no great hurry. If whoever it was hung up before she got there, she would not be unhappy about that.

"Hello?"

Silence. There was no sound on the other side of the line. She frowned. Had her greeting not been heard?

"Hello, who is this?"

"Mama, it's me."

Her legs gave out from under her, and she dropped the phone. A moment of pure confusion - how had she ended up on the floor? - and she reached again for the phone. "Hello? Hello, who is this? Who am I speaking to."

"It's me, Mama. I'm okay. I'm sorry it took me so long to call you, but I had to be real careful."

She couldn't be hearing what she was hearing. But it was his voice. There was no mistaking her son's voice; she would know it anywhere.

"What...? How...?"

"It's a real long story, Mama. But we okay. All of us, we okay. We gonna work for a while and then we gonna be free men."

Her eyes were full of tears. She was still trying to find her voice as she felt them overflow, streaming down her cheeks. He was okay? He was alive? Was she dreaming? She wanted to pinch herself. But no, she wasn't dreaming. She remembered getting up and out of bed and putting her feet on the floor. And no dream could be this crystal clear.

"Scooter?" she whispered, almost afraid to ask - afraid she was hearing things or that when she said his name he would suddenly disappear. She might wake up. She would have to feel the pain of losing him all over again.

"Yeah, Mama. It's me. I'm okay."

His words were calm and sure, without a hint of reservation or doubt. It was him. He was okay. And suddenly, she was both laughing and sobbing, tears flowing freely as she gripped the phone with both hands.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

"Murdock? Do you want this?"

Murdock was perusing through the shelves and shelves of video and audio tapes, all numbered with corresponding files when he heard Hannibal's voice call him from the other room. Pulling one last tape from the wall - the one with Josh Curtis' name on it - he wandered back to the other room.

"What's up, Colonel?"

Hannibal held out a folder in his direction. "Your file," he said simply.

Murdock set the tape on the desk, and stared for a long moment at the file in his hand. It had his name on it. Did he even want to know what was in it? Did it really even matter what Stockwell had on him? One way or another, he was here for the long haul. Still, there was something so unnerving about _not _knowing. He set the folder on top of the cabinet, debating for a moment more before he finally opened it to a copy of his transfer papers.

**May, 1968**

Lieutenant HM Murdock stared at the orders in his hands with a look that was a bit more than skeptical. "Oh, come on, it's not that bad."

He glanced up at his roommate. "I didn't say it was _bad_..."

"I thought you _wanted _to go over. Isn't that what you've been saying the past year?"

"I do."

"So why do you look like someone just killed your puppy?"

Murdock rolled his eyes and set the copy of the orders on the desk. "Henry, I've never even been _in _a helicopter, much less do I know how to fly one."

Henry laughed. "Come on, man, what do you think they're gonna do? Drop you off in Saigon and wave good-riddance? They've spent too damn much money on you for that and you know it."

Murdock sighed. "I wanted to go over," he said quietly. "But not like this."

"Well, you didn't specify _what _you wanted to fly."

"I didn't think I needed to."

"I hear helos are a lot harder to fly than fixed wing." Henry smiled. "But you enjoy a challenge, right?"

Murdock smirked, then sighed as he looked down at the paper in his hand. "Just not how I intended it to happen. Why on earth are they assigning me to -"

"Because that's what they need," Henry interrupted him. "Come on, man, that's a stupid question; you already know the answer. They don't wanna force a second tour and they're runnin' out of chopper pilots who haven't been over in Southeast Asia. I bet you any money that's what's goin' on. And anyways, what does it matter? You wanted to go over there. Now you're going. Ain't that a good thing?"

Murdock sighed deeply, and forced a smile as he nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I guess."

"Come on, then." Henry tapped his shoulder as he headed for the door. "Let's go celebrate. I'll buy you a drink."

*X*X*X*

Murdock closed the folder, and closed his eyes, taking in a few deep, calming breaths. No. There were things in this file he simply didn't want to remember, didn't want to know, knew but couldn't think about. Without a word, he stepped away from the cabinet and crossed the room.

"Face?"

Face was so engrossed in his reading he was startled by Murdock's voice. As he looked up, his expression was blank. It didn't change as Murdock handed him the file.

He didn't need to explain. Face knew what he meant. He looked at the file, then back at Murdock, and took it from his hand with a silent nod. He set it underneath the one he was currently going through.

Frankie was staring. "Murdock, don't you wanna see what's in your file?" he asked, confused. "I mean, I'd wanna know what Stockwell's got on me."

Murdock glanced at him, and forced a tight smile. "You haven't done the things I've done, Frankie." With that, he turned toward the filing cabinet to look for the file on Josh Curtis that went with the tape.

**June, 1968**

This place had memories - so clear they were almost hallucinations, flashing before his eyes. The house looked the same as it had when he'd left in the middle of the night. He'd had only the money he could steal out of his dad's wallet. But that didn't stop him. Caution to the wind, he'd hitched a ride to the train station, and from there to Dallas.

There would be no forgetting the few weeks that had followed - not as long as he lived. He'd never known hunger the way he felt it there, huddled on skid row with the crazies. When his grandfather found him, he'd practically fallen into his arms with tears of relief. But he'd never come back to this house. He would've stayed there in that alley forever if it had come to that.

Now it was decades later. There was no trace of that boy on the outside. In his place stood a man, academy trained, a fighter pilot with a Thunderbird jacket, headed to Vietnam with a commission to fly helicopters. If that was a bit of a downgrade - okay, a lot of one - he was okay with that. The important thing was, it was what he wanted to do.

In any case, he'd never see skid row again, that was for sure. He could've bought any car he wanted to drive down here, and afforded it easily. Or, even better, he could've used the two weeks off to see any place in the world that he wanted to see. Instead he'd pulled up in front of his childhood home in a brown cutlass. And sat there. And waited.

Murdock stayed in the car, in the dirt driveway, for a long time. He wasn't sure how long. He'd run from this place, and he'd escaped. He'd sworn he would never come back here. What was he doing back here? He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly pushed the door open and stood to his feet. The place smelled familiar; it was in the air - the smell of small town West Texas. He'd sworn never to come back...

Time heals all wounds. That's what his grandparents had told him. The wounds he had now seemed different from the ones he'd had back then. He had no fear of a belt, of drunken anger, of what might come through his bedroom door at night. The nightmares had gone away, the constant sleep deprivation. In his years at the academy, he'd thought about his father at least once a day. It was something he'd deal with later. When time healed the wounds.

But there was no more time. His orders were sending him into an active combat zone. It was no surprise; he'd _wanted _to go. But he knew full well that meant he might never get a chance to make this right. To find that healing, that closure. He didn't expect an apology. He wasn't sure what he did expect. But one way or another, he was here to make amends. He had to. For his _own _sake, he had to know that this chapter in his life was completely closed.

He walked up the sidewalk slowly, hands buried deep in his pockets. So many things he needed to say. Things he needed to hear. But mostly, he just needed it to be over. With a deep breath, he put his shoulders back and raised his hand to knock on the broken screen door. The doorbell didn't work. It never had.

The sound of footsteps was followed by some muttering. A shadow passed over Murdock as the large man's bulk filled up the doorway. Murdock felt a pang of emotion as the watery blue eyes fixed on him, but he couldn't really identify just what it was he was feeling. Could a man look so much older in so few years?

There was a moment of complete silence as the two of them just looked at each other. Then, finally, he spoke. "Figured you would be back sooner or later."

Murdock lowered his head, distinctly _not _looking for an argument. "Dad," he greeted simply.

"What do you want?"

Murdock took in a deep breath, and let it out slow, keeping his shoulders back as he studied the man in front of him. No different from the way he remembered. He was still drunk, disinterested, and angry. And he still smelled like cheap whiskey. "I wanted to talk to you."

There was a snort from the big man, but he made no move to open the door. His tone was one of vague disinterest mixed with contempt. "Talk?" The way he said the word made it sound almost sacrilegious. "'Course you would wanna talk."

"It's what I came here for," Murdock said firmly.

The man looked Murdock up and down, then turned his back, not opening the door. "Get inside if you wanna _talk_."

Murdock winced with the first step he took inside. The smell, the memories, the sight of his father as he stumbled to the far end of the ratty sofa that had been in this house as long as Murdock could remember... It was all sickening. He picked up the half empty bottle of cheap whiskey (also his favorite) and muttered, "Gonna need more of this to _talk_."

He took a swig right from the bottle, then wiped his hand over his mouth. When he set the bottle back down, he picked up a pack of unfiltered Pall Malls, tapping one out. It took him a few tries to get it lit. He was so drunk, he had no coordination.

"I'm going to Vietnam," Murdock said flatly, keeping his shoulders back.

There was no reaction other than a sneer. "So?"

The cloud of smoke got caught in beam of sunlight streaming in from one of the filthy windows and tangled up with the dust motes in the air. It somehow made the house even more constricting.

"I thought you'd like to know."

"Why should I care? Alan's been there for months."

Murdock was surprised. And suddenly, inexplicably elated. He'd never gotten along with Alan. He had no reason to think that now would be any different. But he couldn't help the question that came out of his mouth, without thought. "Where is he at?" Maybe Murdock he could get assigned near there...

"Nha Trang." There was pride in the way he talked about Alan. Always had been. "Special Forces."

Murdock almost managed to hide his surprise, but not quite. "You're serious?"

"'Course I'm serious." Apparently, he was so proud of Alan that he thought it deserved another drink. "Why? You think you're gonna drop by and see him?"

Murdock's jaw clenched at the mocking laughter that followed. Ten years and all of his accomplishments made no difference whatsoever to this man. He was still as sick and hateful as ever.

"They would tear you apart, boy."

Murdock swallowed. He'd come here for one reason, and he say what needed to be said. Then he would move on, and never look back. "I can't stay long," he started slowly, pacing himself. "I can't stay long. I just thought you'd like to know that..."

He tried to take a deep breath. But somehow, he felt like he could only breathe with the top part of his lungs. This was the hard part. He hadn't imagined how hard it would actually be. He'd rehearsed these lines a thousand times. Now that they would actually mean something, he just had to make them come out right.

"I don't regret leaving," he finally said. He choked, shut his eyes, gathered his thoughts again. It was so hard to think in this room. He'd shed so damn many tears in this room. So much anger and shame and brutal humiliation and pain... "But I don't have hard feelings. I'm not angry. I just want to put it behind me. I have -"

"Put it behind you!" The man had flipped the switch from disinterest to rage, and it was just as potent as Murdock remembered it. He was up on his feet, hands clenched into fists as the cigarette dangled from his mouth. "_You're _not angry?"

"I'm putting this behind me," Murdock finally finished. "I came here to find out if you're willing to do the same."

The man pulled the cigarette out from between his lips, holding it in his hand as he jabbed a finger toward Murdock. "I raised your crazy pansy ass, put a roof over you're fucked up head, had to listen as everyone in town talked about what a freak you were. And you repaid me by trying to bash my fucking head in."

Murdock was steeled for the attack. Some distant part of his mind that was always conscious of self-preservation had been expecting it. He stood still, jaw clenched, as he absorbed the blows, saying nothing in his defense although the rebuttals came immediately to mind. _You deserved it, you drunken son of a bitch._

"Then you run off like a scared little school girl leaving all the work here for me and Alan. Now you stand here looking like you're gonna cry if I don't give you some big fag hug? You're crazier than your god damned mother. You ain't no son of mine."

He didn't make a sound, just stood still. His eyes were out of focus, staring at a spot on the far wall the way he had learned on day one at the academy. It was just another dress down, just another step in the never-ending game. This man was not his father, he was just another drill instructor. Keeping that in mind made the words hurt less. It made him cold and disconnected, and there was safety in that.

The man was glaring daggers at Murdock as he took a drag off his smoke, then tossed it to the floor, crushing it under his foot. "The only thing I regret is letting your mamma bring you home. Would've been better for everyone if she just dropped your ass in a ditch somewhere."

When the silence filled the room again, Murdock shifted his eyes back to the man. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I won't be back."

"God damn, I fuckin' hope not, boy. When you run away, you're supposed to stay away. You can't even run away right."

Murdock turned towards the door as the man grabbed the bottle, taking an extra big swig. It was still in his hand when he continued.

"You never were good for anything, Hosanna. Except maybe a laugh."

Murdock stopped, mid-stride, halfway to the door.

"You wanna know what I think about you, boy? I think you the biggest failure of my fucking life."

Very slowly, Murdock licked his lips and took a breath. Then he turned and looked the man dead in the eye. "I'm _your _failure?" he growled.

The man responded by taking another swig from the bottle. For just an instant, the thought flashed across his mind that he could kill that man where he stood, right here and now, and never do a day of jail time for it. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody would come find him in Vietnam. But instead of entertaining that thought, he put his shoulders back as he turned fully to face him, head held high. He wouldn't stoop to this man's level. He was _better _that him and all of the filth and anger and misery he embraced.

"You had _nothing _to do with the man that I am today." Fists at his sides, Murdock spoke in the controlled, authoritative, command tone he'd learned as a military officer. "The most you did for me was give me a reason to get out of this hell hole - this dead end town with its dead end bars and _shit _fathers who just want to waste away in their booze. I am a four-point-oh graduate of the USAF Military Academy. I flew two years with the most prestigious unit in the whole goddamn country. I made more money in the last year alone that you've seen in the past ten. And I am _damn_ proud to be the biggest failure of your miserable life."

"Yeah, right," the man scoffed, dismissively.

Murdock kept his eyes locked on the drunken man in front of him as he reached for the door handle. "_Rot _here in this hell hole if that's what you want. And when you get bored without someone to beat, and blow your brains out someday, I'll be on the other side of the world laughing. 'Cause you're already dead to me."

"Go to hell, you ungrateful son of a bitch."

Without another word, or an ounce of insecurity, Murdock spun away as he jerked the door open and stepped outside, slamming it behind him as he walked away for the last time.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

There were two panels on the wall. One of them controlled the video and audio setup against the wall. The one behind where Hannibal was seated had a phone, and patches that lit up. It was a wire tap of some kind. BA couldn't guess exactly _what _Stockwell was tapping unless he actually wanted to go through the effort of opening up the wall and see how it was transmitting and receiving. That was more than he was prepared to invest in this project, at least right now.

Now that he had talked to Momma, he had one less thing on his mind. But he could feel his focus slowly shifting from worry to cold anger. For over a week, his momma had thought her only child was dead. Stockwell had done that to her, and if BA had anything to say about it, he was going to pay for every minute of uncertainty that she had suffered.

"You got a walkman, BA?" Murdock asked as he appeared from the back room to add two audio cassettes to the video on the desk. "I'm betting these are real interesting, but got a lousy beat for dancing."

BA took the tapes from Murdock's hand and put the first one into a cassette player, then used the panel on the wall to get it started. It picked up mid-conversation with the sound of Josh Curtis' voice. And suddenly, everyone's attention was fixed firmly on that tape.

"I want the A-Team brought in," Curtis said flatly. "I want courts martial that are gonna nail them to the wall. You guarantee that, and I'll guarantee I can get them for you."

"You don't need my help to have the A-team brought to trial and sentenced to rather lengthy terms in the stockade." Stockwell's voice was easily recognizable. "The military has been after them for some time now."

"Yeah, but I want someone who can actually do the job and do it right. If I do this, I'm gonna be right there with them, in close quarters. If you don't come through for me, I won't have any way to get out of there."

"That's a very large personal risk you are willing to take, and one that would require you to trust me. Neither the risk nor the trust is your style."

"Well you just happen to be the best option I've got. Aside from shooting them myself, there's no other way I can guarantee they'll face justice. And shooting them would just be too easy. I want him to suffer for what he did."

"What _he_ did?"

Curtis was quiet for a long time. Too quiet for too long. No matter what he'd said next, it was a lie. "They robbed the Bank of Hanoi. I was there when Colonel Morrison gave them the orders that were for an NVA snatch. They went rogue. I'll testify to that."

Face and Hannibal exchanged glances, saying nothing. It was a lie, for one thing. And acting against orders was a hell of a lot different from killing Morrison, for another.

The tape was quiet for a long moment. Finally, Stockwell answered with full assurance, not the least bit of hesitation in his voice. "Why would I need your testimony to prove that? I could have the orders themselves with one phone call. Either version of them, I might add."

"What do you mean, either version?"

"Oh, come now, Josh. If you _were _in the room when Colonel Morrison gave those orders, then you know perfectly well that the orders given to Colonel Smith did not match the ones that were sent to Washington."

Frankie dropped the file that was in his hand, in surprise, and quickly knelt to shuffle it all back together.

"There were _no _orders sent to Washington," Curtis corrected. "I know that for a fact. Which is going to create a problem for any prosecutor. Unless they have other evidence. Like my testimony."

"I'm not concerned."

The full, complete confidence in Stockwell's voice couldn't be mistaken for anything else. Like a mob boss who'd bought the judge and jury, he didn't even flinch at the suggestion that he might get them to court and _not_ have a conviction. As the recording was silent for a moment, BA turned and studied Hannibal. The colonel's face was expressionless as he stared at the tape player.

"I was in that room when Morrison signed the orders. And that's not going to hurt your case, no matter what." Curtis' confidence was faltering. "But more importantly, I can get them for you, wrapped up in a nice little bow. All you've got to do is get the word out that I'm alive, and you know where. They'd come running, and they'd be on your turf. Surely you've got some operatives that can get that message out for you."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, _I _got the word that you were interested in them, didn't I?"

Stockwell paused. "Frankly, Josh, I'm far more interested in what you can contribute in the way of additional material. Testimony that can't be gained by looking at the paperwork."

"Such as?"

"I understand there's a rumor that Morrison wasn't killed in the shelling."

"Turn it off."

The sound of Murdock's voice, so ice cold it almost didn't sound like him, made BA react without thinking. Too many years of following orders given in that tone elicited a knee-jerk reaction.

"Captain?" Hannibal asked curiously. His voice was perfectly calm, his face still expressionless although his eyes had shifted to Murdock. The implied "are you alright?" didn't need to be spoken.

Murdock looked at him briefly, then turned on his heel and headed for the cockpit. Without a word, he closed the door behind him, and BA heard the sound of the latch turning as he locked himself in.

*X*X*X*

Hannibal gave Murdock a few minutes alone before he followed him to the cockpit, knocking on the door before he pulled it open and ducked inside. He didn't speak as he moved to the copilot's seat and cast a sideways glance at Murdock. He was in no rush.

"Something on your mind, Captain?"

"Not a gosh darn thing." Murdock glanced up, lacking his usual smile. "Something on your mind?"

Hannibal turned and studied him quietly for a moment, considering his options. "We knew it was a pretty good possibility that Stockwell orchestrated the whole thing, you know. It's not a surprise."

"Yeah..." Murdock paused, looking away. "I know. It wasn't a surprise, was it?"

"So why are you letting it get under your skin?"

"Who says I am?"

"You haven't said a word since you heard that tape."

"Not much to say."

Hannibal didn't answer. Murdock's eyes were glassy as he stared out the front of the plane, silent for a few long minutes. When he finally spoke, it was so low, Hannibal barely heard him over the sound of the plane's engines.

"I did it, you know."

"I know."

"And I'm not sorry."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. As he leaned back, he reached into his pocket for a cigar, staring out the front of the plane as he reflected on those words.

"I mean, I'm sorry it came down on you. But I'm not sorry I did it."

Hannibal lit his cigar, and leaned back again. "If even half of what came out in that trial is true, I don't blame you."

"Whether it was true or not, it doesn't really change anything in the end," Murdock said quietly. "We're still here, still working for Stockwell."

There was venom in his voice as he said the name. Hannibal didn't let it faze him. "Stockwell clearly had an agenda," he said. "And I suspect, with that kind of power, he would've nailed us whether Morrison was actually murdered or not."

"Yeah, but he was."  
Hannibal turned and studied Murdock for a moment. "What I mean is, you're not responsible for what happened during that trial, Murdock."

"If I hadn't killed Morrison, if I hadn't lost it, I could have... stopped all this."

"How?"

"I don't know. I could've proved he wasn't murdered. Hell, he _wouldn't _have been murdered. He would've died at the shelling. And any autopsy report would've shown that."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, watching as Murdock leaned forward in his seat, bringing up his hands to rub his temples. Hannibal frowned.

"Murdock, did it ever occur to you that the chances are pretty slim they actually recovered Morrison's body intact enough to send it to the States, bury it, exhume it fifteen years later, and determined he was murdered?"

"You never should have been at that trial. I gave Stockwell that ammo to use against us. To use against you."

"Murdock, you're not listening to me."

Murdock stopped, turned, and stared at Hannibal. Good. Maybe now he'd actually hear the words coming out of Hannibal's mouth.

"There is no telling how much of the evidence used in that trial was fabricated. But I'm willing to bet it was more than what wasn't."

"He didn't come up with it off the top of his head," Murdock said. "He knew I shot Morrison."

"And if he hadn't, it would've changed nothing. He would've just used something else. As far as I'm concerned, you're the reason why we're still breathing, not the reason we went to trial."

Murdock gave a tight smile. "Well, I'm not gonna stop you from thinking that way if that's how you want to see things."

"Stockwell is going to do all he can to restructure this team in a way that breaks up that unity that he's worried about us using against him - and he's right to be afraid. But regardless of what he does and how he does it, as far as I'm concerned, nothing has changed. You would've stood at that trial with us if it would've helped. And you would've taken our place in front of that firing squad if you could've. I know that. But that would've just made matters a lot worse."

He paused for a long moment, eyes locked hard on Murdock. But the pilot said nothing, and there was nothing in his eyes to give away what he was thinking.

"If Stockwell knew that you killed him or not - if you _did _kill him or not - it doesn't matter. He nailed us all on Morrison's murder."

"He should've nailed me."

"He didn't want you."

Murdock sighed. "I know that prosecutor wanted to make a deal with you. Why didn't you take it?"

"Because part of being a solid unit, of determining that you'll never leave a man behind, is knowing that if anyone on that team dies, you're going with them."

Murdock glanced up, smiling sadly as he considered that. Hannibal could see the thoughts play through his mind. How long would he have lasted without the team? Days? Weeks? Maybe only hours. Hannibal had known that if there was a way out, Murdock would find it. But if there wasn't, there was hardly a more fitting way for the three of them to go.

"Stockwell sure knew how to play us," Murdock said quietly, his smile faltering. "How to take us all out."

"I don't think he ever intended to take us all out. Think of that trial as an... interview process of sorts." Hannibal smiled with that assessment.

"That's one hell of an interview process. A damn elaborate one at that."

"One that our lives depended on. We would've either gotten the job or been found incompetent and therefore not worth his time."

Murdock was silent a moment, pondering the possibilities of what could have been before shaking those thoughts off. "You know..."

He trailed off, hesitating. Hannibal glanced at him, but didn't pry. He would continue if he wanted to, if he needed to.

"I really didn't remember anything about Morrison until the trial. I would have... well... I would have said something sooner if I... you know. But I didn't know. I knew something had happened. I didn't know what."

Hannibal watched him for a moment. "If you didn't remember, why did you stay at the VA?" he asked calmly, completely non-judgmental.

Murdock wrung his hands, but the movement was slow, deliberate, lacking any nervousness. He sat for a moment, watching the slow movements of his fingers before he finally spoke. "Like I said, I knew there was something buried in my head. Some memory that would just..."

He paused, becoming lost in thought. Hannibal watched him quietly, carefully.

"I didn't want to know. It was there but... I didn't really remember." Murdock glanced up at Hannibal, brow furrowed. "Does that make any sense?"

Hannibal nodded. "But you remember now?"

"Yeah. I do. I mean, I always knew it was there but... I was afraid, I guess. Staying at the VA was safe. It kept the memory at bay."

"What memory?"

Murdock glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"What do you remember?" Hannibal asked seriously.

Murdock hesitated a long moment, then breathed in deep and let it out slow. "I remember hearing him talking. He was on the phone, or a radio or... I don't know. It's still kind of fuzzy. He sold you guys out. Ten million piastres and his whole career... he just..." Murdock gave a low, joyless chuckle. "It was all for a cut of the money. Robbing the Bank of Hanoi was never about helping end the war. It was about ten million piastres. And about making sure you never made it back. And I just... I shot him."

Hannibal nodded slowly, solemnly, studying as Murdock's brow furrowed. The pilot was lost in his own little world and Hannibal was still watching to see what he found there. "I remember feeling like I was watching someone else do it, like it wasn't really me. And I remember... I remember it was hard to hold the pistol because... because my fingers were broken."

Hannibal looked away. Murdock looked at him for a long moment, then went back to staring at his hands. But he kept them still this time.

"I would have never had to remember if it weren't for Stockwell. And I don't... I don't know how I feel about that. You all deserve the truth, but... I really didn't want to know, Hannibal. I just didn't."

"I don't blame you."

"And I know I don't know all of it. And I don't want to. I just... It's enough."

Hannibal sighed. He hesitated for a long moment, but when Murdock didn't continue, he finally answered. "For what it's worth, Captain... I would've done the same thing."

"Yeah, but the difference between me and you is that you wouldn't have blanked it all out afterward. You would have been there for the team. I wasn't."

Hannibal flinched, then looked away as the unfamiliar and unwelcome feelings of guilt hit him out of nowhere. He didn't give those feelings a voice, ordinarily. There was no place for them in his life. But hearing Murdock blame himself for his illness, as if he could've done something differently and made it all never happen, was too much. But there was nothing he could say to that - no proof he could give that none of it had been Murdock's fault - without bringing to mind all of the other things he knew Murdock had suppressed. All of the things Hannibal knew he would never be able to talk about.

"You did what you had to in order to survive, Murdock. Nobody blames you for that." He looked up and met the pilot's stare. "Least of all me."

"I know." Murdock smiled, some of his old warmth returning. "And I know I can't change what happened. But I can try and do right by the team now. I can be here for you now."

"You always were, Murdock. And none of us have ever doubted that."

Murdock studied him for a moment, then broke into a full, genuine smile as he nodded. "Yeah. I know."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Face had a headache. All of the speed reading and the whirlwind of information in his head only added to the fact that he was overtired and, frankly, overexerted. He was tired of sifting through the wealth of evidence that suggested Stockwell had orchestrated this whole damn thing from the beginning. And he was glad for the silence and the calm in Murdock's cockpit, away from the videos and cassettes and stacks and stacks of papers. Other than the folder in his lap - the one with Murdock's name on it - he was done with it. And even this, he had no particular desire to look at. He was in no great hurry to read all of Murdock's secrets, whatever they may be.

Sitting silent in the copilot's seat, he breathed deep, eyes closed. He hadn't said a word since he'd wandered in here, and Murdock hadn't either. What was there really to say? Opening his eyes, he stared out at the lightening sky as the sun slowly came up behind them.

"How did you do it, Murdock?" he finally asked, offhandedly.

"Do what?"

He wasn't even entirely sure what he was going to ask until he was on the spot, having to put it into words. With a sigh, he turned to look at Murdock. "How did you just up and leave everything you've known for so long, then show up here like none of it even matters? Like it doesn't bother you in the least that you're never going home, never going to see Kelly again..."

Murdock shrugged as he adjusted his gauges. "I'll see Kelly again. And even if I don't, the things I can't live without are all on this plane."

"What if they weren't?"

Murdock hesitated for a moment. "Then it would be just like when I was in the Army."

Face let his hand drop and sighed deeply as he stared out at the skyline. "This man has planned and schemed all of this. For years. When it's over... how do you think it ends?"

"I don't know, Face. Never did know how it would end. Never really thought about it."

"I guess I never thought it would end peacefully. I just never thought it would end like this."

"Like what? How it began? Sent out on impossible secret missions under the orders of a nebulous leadership who doesn't give a damn if we come back alive? Other then the scenery, it seems a lot like Vietnam."

"This isn't Vietnam. There was nothing more, when we were in Vietnam. There was never any home to go back to."

"That's changed for you? You got something in LA? Someone?"

Face sighed. "LA is home."

"LA is a place. The team is home."

Face sighed, and looked down at the folder in his lap, opening it in an attempt to end - or at least change -the conversation. That was all he needed to hear to know that Murdock wouldn't understand this. He couldn't blame him. Face didn't really even understand it himself. Why _couldn't _he just do what Murdock did - walk away from his life and everything he'd known and cared about for years, just for the sake of the team? It wasn't a light thing. Murdock had loved Kelly. Face knew he did. He'd felt secure and comfortable with his life as it had been. None of that had mattered at all, and he didn't even _have _to be here. He'd walked away without a second thought. Face knew it should've made him feel guilty that he couldn't do the same. But he couldn't quite find that place in him that could really believe he was wrong.

Thumbing through the papers, Face took a deep breath as he gave his report. "He's got your service record, transcripts from the academy. Everything you'd expect him to have in the way of official paperwork - before and during Vietnam."

Murdock said nothing, just stared out at the sky as Face glanced through the contents of the file, looking for anything that might be particularly threatening.

"Birth certificate, your mother's death certificate." He paused, and glanced over at Murdock, a little more cautious as he continued. "Your father's death certificate."

"What's the name on that one?"

Face looked back down. "Paul Murdock."

Murdock shrugged. "Huh." Then he adjusted the yoke.

Face hesitated a moment as he looked over the next few documents. "Your hospital records are in here. From at least five different doctors."

"How far back?"

"He's got your admission papers. So... from the beginning."

"I'm better off not knowing what's in there. Figure Stockwell got a kick out of them."

Face skimmed over the written reports. Beside him, Murdock was making a point to be calm, but the white-knuckled grip around the yoke gave him away.

"Well, if he was trying to find a diagnosis, all he got was confused."

"Him and everyone else."

Face took a few moments more, silently reading over the earliest assessments of Murdock's condition. It was truly amazing how far he'd come. But Murdock was right; he wouldn't want to hear about what was on these pages. Some things were better left forgotten. As he flipped to the next set of papers, Face chuckled, and held it up.

"You know what this is?"

Rhetorical question. Murdock wouldn't be able to see it from where he was sitting.

"This is the transfer paperwork on the very first scam we ran to get you out of there."

"Really?"

With a smile, Face offered the paper to Murdock. He knew there were no bad memories there. Murdock took the paper looked at it, and give a little smile when he handed it back. "The first of many. Hannibal in a hazmat suit seems a fitting way to kick things off."

Face took the paper and set it back in the file with a small, genuine smile. It had been a very long time since all of that. But he still remembered it clearly.

**April, 1974**

Face stood against the wall of the beachfront hotel, watching. He'd gotten the call from Hannibal a few days ago. Murdock was out, back on the team. Why did that make Face's stomach twist into knots? Maybe it was because he'd managed to avoid even thinking about the captain for the past three years. He'd managed to pretend he didn't even exist, to push even the mere hint of pain away and out of his life. But now? Now Murdock was there. With them. There was no avoiding it.

Murdock had been on the beach for well over an hour, watching the sky get lighter as the sun rose behind him. Face had watched him. He could walk away right now, and he knew it. He could choose never to deal with this, never to open these wounds. Never feel anything. He could choose...

He watched as Hannibal and BA came into view, heading towards Murdock. He'd been wondering how long it would take them to realize the pilot was gone. Pilot. Was he still a pilot? He'd never have a license to fly again. Neither Hannibal nor BA seemed tense, or particularly uncomfortable. But Face could feel the weight of this morning pressing down on his shoulders.

It _couldn't _be the same.

Face's eyes narrowed at the manic movements from the captain. What was going on over there? It was stupid to sit here and wonder; he could easily just go find out. They were waiting for him, after all. But he didn't want to talk to them. Not now. He wanted to see that everything was going to be okay before jumped in there and wound up shocked by damage. No. It was best to wait. To bide his time. Hannibal wouldn't get on his case for at least another day or two for not making an appearance. After that, it might get trickier.

Face ran a hand through his hair. This was stupid. What the hell was he so afraid of? Hannibal and BA had managed to put their stupid, selfish insecurities aside and be there for him. It was _Murdock_, for crying out loud. But how did they do it? How could they do it and still keep that distance? How could they do it without getting hurt again? Murdock spun around again and he could see the emotion and stress written all over his face even from his distance. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to know.

Face dropped until he was sitting on his heals watching. The others might as well have not been there for all the attention he afforded them. _God, Murdock, what happened to you?_ Face brought his hands up, his fingers around his nose, thumbs under his chin, as though he was praying. How the hell was he supposed to deal with this? How could he talk to the shell of a man he had known as whole? How was he supposed to get past that? How could he accept it? How the hell could he live with it?

On some subconscious level, muted by the fact that he simply didn't care, Face heard the snaps and cracks of twigs behind him. But it was the feel of a gun barrel on the back of his neck that made him spin around with so much surprise that he lost his balance and fell right on his ass.

"Way to be on your guard, Lieutenant."

Great. Just what he needed. A lecture. "That's what you're here for, right?"

Hannibal looked down at him disapprovingly, and put his gun away, tucking it back into his belt, under his light jacket. "Nice of you to stop by, Face." He held down a hand to pull Face to his feet. "Though next time it, you might want to try a different approach. I wasn't sure who you were."

Face took a moment to straighten himself out as he regained his balance. "You figure it out before or after you put the gun in my back?"

"Before."

"It figures."

Hannibal folded his arms. "Where've you been, Face?"

"Here. Around." Face shifted and glanced back to the beach. "Here mostly."

He ran a hand through his hair again. Why was he so damn uncomfortable?

"Face, why don't you just talk to him and get it over with?"

"I don't know." If he'd had an answer to that, he would have made it down there already.

He put his hands in his pockets as he turned his back to Hannibal and watched again. Murdock was talking to BA. What the hell did BA find to say to him?

It was a long moment before Face spoke again. "How do you deal with it, Colonel?"

"Deal with what?"

"The... destruction." The word was bitter in Face's mouth. He'd been part of that - a part of the damage done to Murdock. He'd killed hundreds - watched them drop to the ground lifeless. But he'd never had to _feel _what that guilt felt like, how that destruction truly spread. Murdock was the personification of that destruction, that guilt. He was the damage, the proof of everything Face had done and been a part of. Everything he'd been running from since the moment he'd left Vietnam.

"That destruction is there whether I see it or not," Hannibal said quietly. "I can't just forget that. So I can either do something about it or try to ignore it, but one way or another, it's not going to go away."

Face dropped his head. "I know," he whispered. "I understand the logic. But it's just that... as I go down there and see him, talk to him, _then _it's real."

Hannibal sighed. "Look, kid. You can put this off for the next day, or week, or month - frankly, I don't care. You're the one who's gotta live with it. But I will tell you this. He's asking about you. And he's not stupid. If he figures out that you've been avoiding him, that conversation you're dreading so much is going to get a hell of a lot more awkward."

Face knew all of that. None of it was new information. He dropped his head back and stared up at the sky, trying to regroup, to bring everything under control.

"I'm not going to force you, Lieutenant." He was walking away. "But if you want my opinion, I think you're a fool for putting it off."

Face's jaw clenched. The man had a knack for giving motivational speeches that were laced with insults. "Hannibal?"

Hannibal paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, kid?"

Reluctantly, Face locked gazes with Hannibal. "How bad is he?" He needed to know, to have some warning, to brace himself before he went down there.

"He's manic," Hannibal said calmly. "He's medicated. He's sure as hell not ready to fly. And I'm not even sure he's ready to be out of the hospital. But he's holding it together. He's coherent. Sensical."

Face dropped his eyes and nodded. "Thanks."

He didn't have a clue what he'd been expecting. But anything was better than nothing. And that answer was better than some.

*X*X*X*

Murdock was sitting just above the high tide mark, knees bent, leaning back on his hands. He had his shoes and socks off, his bare feet worked into the sand, toes wiggling. Head bopping, he was singing "California Girls" almost under his breath. His grin was wide, but his vision was suspiciously blurry in spite of it.

He was glad when Hannibal found him on the beach. Even more glad he said it was okay, him being out here. He just needed to feel the air. No walls. Freedom. It hadn't been a planned thing, a decision. The ocean had just called him. The sky. He'd really missed the sky. They had a grounds outside, a garden, back at the VA. But it wasn't the same. He couldn't look up, look out, see the blues, watch it change.

BA was standing over him now. Hannibal had moved away, but BA was like a protective mama bear. Murdock sighed as he glanced quickly up at him, then away again, up at the sky. "Why don't you pull up some sand and sit a while BA? You're makin' me nervous with all the loomin'."

BA hesitated. Shoulders squared, eyes roaming the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary, he was on alert. It reminded Murdock of the way he'd looked in Vietnam - ready for anything Charlie threw at them.

Murdock shivered at the thought.

Finally, BA sat down beside him, eyes roving around the beach once more, then out over the dark surface of the water. It was deep and foreboding, black nothingness as far as the eye could see, not yet illuminated _quite _enough to tell the sky from the ocean in the distance.

"So talk to me, BA, buddy. What's...?" He trailed off, shifting anxiously. "How've you been doin'? What's it like on the run? How's Face doin'? What's goin' on? Just... gimme somethin' to listen to..."

BA took a breath and started. "I went to Chicago and saw my Mama for a while."

"Bet she was surprised."

"Yeah."

"The military folks must've told her you were locked up an' all. She must've been happy."

"Yeah."

"Must be good to have family like that. Folks that care. Must be good."

"You got folks who care, too. And we ain't going anywhere this time."

BA's voice was low and soft, but the words were determined. Murdock heard it, but he didn't look away from the sky this time.

"Wasn't you guys that went away, was it? An' it might not be your choice whether we get to stay together."

"I got a choice. I'm stayin'."

Murdock sighed. "Sometimes I wish I was crazy enough to not know that I'm crazy, you know? I see guys like that in the VA. Think they're Julius Caesar or Napoleon. One guy keeps trying to convince me he's the Angel Gabriel. They figure it's the rest of the world that's wacked."

BA snorted softly and shook his head a little. "I'm glad you ain't that crazy. Don't know how to deal with people that crazy."

"Hey, he's happy. He's an archangel. He believes he has all these kickass powers."

"Murdock, you the only man I know could find a way to make more crazy sound like a _good _thing."

"Crazy's not bad. Knowing you're crazy and not bein' able to stop it? That gets scary sometimes."

"Everybody gets scared. It ain't a bad thing to get scared of things that are supposed to be scary."

"Like bein' crazy?"

Murdock glanced at him, but he quickly looked away.

"Thing is, if I was _gone_, I wouldn't know I was gone. I wouldn't care. I wouldn't miss stuff. Y'know? I wouldn't remember... any of it."

BA was quiet for a moment, leaning forward and tracing in the sand. "Yeah. But if you was that crazy we would miss you."

Murdock snorted. Miss him? Really? What the hell for? "I am crazy, you know. There's all these black spots. Days, weeks - hell maybe months - that I'm never gonna remember. I don't know if I can function outside anymore. I don't trust me, so you'd better not. And you'd better watch me. 'Cause if I go, I might not know, or I might know and not care."

BA said nothing. What was it Murdock had really been expecting him to say? With a shaking sigh, Murdock dropped one hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw underneath his protection.

"Maybe I ain't ready. Maybe you should take me back."

"You wanna go back?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I just need to be alone for a bit. Just a half hour or so. Please. Okay?"

BA was at a loss. After a long pause, he stood up, shaking the sand off his pants. "If ya need me, I'll be back by the dunes."

"Thanks, man."

Murdock hunched over his own knees, face in his hands, as BA paced away. His shoulders shook, but his sobs were soundless. Crying so they didn't notice when they looked in on him was a skill he'd learned in the hospital. But the tears poured down his face as he buried it in his hands and knees. He concentrated on breathing without sobbing, not making a sound, not giving himself away. He tried to make it stop, but it was all too much, big and overwhelming and terrifying. The sky - oh God, the sky! - and ocean and... and freedom... BA and Hannibal. Face not even being here... Maybe he didn't agree with Hannibal's decision to get him out. And maybe he was right.

Murdock wasn't sure he could do this. Could he be okay? Could he be out - unsupervised and safe? The thought of letting Hannibal down after everything he'd risked getting him out scared him shitless. More to the point, he was a chickenshit now, fucking petrified of being out of the safe environment of the VA, where everything was regimented, routine, controlled... safe... medicated. Where he didn't have to think or take responsibility.

He didn't know if he could do this. Fuck, he wasn't even sure who he was anymore. Howling Mad. Jesus Christ. God help him.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Face didn't realize that Murdock was crying until he was too close to turn back. He stopped dead in his tracks, shut his eyes hard, and prayed for the sand to open up and swallow him right there. He didn't want to do this. He could think of a thousand things he'd rather do.

_"Like fighting off a pack of rabid monkeys with my bare hands..."_

Face grit his teeth. God damn those memories. So long buried, so long subdued... He didn't want to remember. He'd gone so far out of his way to make sure he _didn't_ remember. But now it was staring him in the face, in all of its ungodly glory, and he couldn't do a damn thing but put his shoulders back and take it head on.

"Hi, Murdock."

Murdock jumped like a scalded cat at the voice, gasped and choked, wiping frantically at his face and turning away when he realized it was Face, standing a few paces away. "Christ! Face, you scared the crap outta me!"

"Sorry."

Murdock was still trying to wipe away the tears. The problem was, they were still flowing. Face hesitated for a long moment, and licked his lips, trying to bring moisture back to his mouth. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until his lungs screamed for air. Breathe out slow... then in... That the hell was he supposed to say?

He closed the distance, the last few steps, and sat down next to Murdock in the sand, pulling his knees up and resting his wrists on them, hands loosely folded. He didn't speak. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

Murdock wiped his eyes and cheeks with the heel of his hand and his nose with the back of one hand. "You got a handkerchief?"

Face didn't look at him. Just reached into his breast pocket, and handed Murdock the handkerchief he found there. He was still dressed in his clothes from the night before, disheveled and tired, and absolutely looking it. Somehow it was the furthest thing from his mind.

Murdock blew his nose, loudly and wetly. Then he tried to chuckle, but it sounded more like a sob. "I won't ask if you want it back."

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry." Murdock sniffled. "Jus'... gimme a minute. Or two. I'll be okay. I'm doin' fine."

Face shook his head, staring out at the water as it slowly parted from the grey sky. The sun was coming up behind them, but the waves were already starting to reflect the first rays.

"I said it's okay. Don't worry about it."

"So how are you?"

Murdock didn't want to sit in silence Face couldn't blame him. But he didn't even pause long enough for Face to give a token answer.

"I... I thought maybe you weren't keen on seeing me. And I can't really blame you. It's... It must look bad. I'm sorry. I'm not... It's not often like this, y'know? But you guys and all that sky and... Sorry."

Murdock finally stopped, took a deep breath, and fought for self-control. Face could almost feel the struggle from where he was sitting. He sighed deeply as he raised a hand to cover his face and pushed it back through his hair. He needed a shower. He needed a meal and at least a good three hours of sleep. Damn it, he needed to say something. It's why he was sitting here to begin with.

"It's fine, Murdock."

Shit, that wasn't going to get them anywhere. He'd already said that. Twice. _Way to wield those words, Lieutenant... _It was so ironic, it was sickening. He could paint the sky with words, could change the entire world around him just by saying it was so; people actually believed him. But he couldn't think of a damn thing to say to the man who was sitting next to him.

"Yeah. I'm guessing it's not, so much. I mean, given that you're not exactly great with emotional crap and I'm sitting here crying for no very good reason. But thanks for trying."

Face shut his eyes. Damn it, what was he supposed to say?

Murdock blew his nose again and wiped at his face. "God, I hate this shit. Everything's just so screwed. I'm so messed up, Face. I'm so fucking sorry. You must think I'm totally wacko." He took a breath - in and out slow. "Look, you don't have to sit here. Gimme a few and I'll be okay again. Promise. That's how it rolls."

Face lowered his gaze, folded his hands again, and let his eyes slip out of focus as he stared at the waves cresting on the shore. "I always thought you were a little wacko," he said softly. He couldn't even manage a smile with his best attempt at humor.

"Yeah well... They didn't call me 'Howlin' Mad' for my cool, calm and collected awards."

His mouth worked better than Face's. So did his smile. It was equally false and uncomfortable, but Face was sure it was better than the best he could give right now.

"The colonel wants me back on the team, you know."

Finally. Something to talk about. "He told me."

"What's your opinion, Lieutenant? And don't give me any bull about me outranking you. You don't get to be a captain when you're certified and discharged."

Face tipped his head up and stared out at the water. "Yeah, well, you don't get to be a lieutenant when you run away from a war crimes trial, either."

Murdock paused, casting a sideways glance at Face for the first time. But he didn't answer. Face had turned the tables on him; now he was the one who didn't know what to say.

"Fair enough," he finally managed. "You're still second in command in the team, though. What d'you think?"

Face licked his lips, took a deep breath. "I don't know." He paused. "How am I supposed to answer that, Murdock? It's been a hell of a long time since I knew you. The best thing I've got to go on right now is Hannibal. And you wouldn't be sitting here if he didn't think you can handle it."

"And how's he s'posed to know that, Face?" Murdock asked shakily. "The... The doctors don't think I'm ready. And I'm not... I'm not exactly in a good place to judge."

"I don't know the doctors. I know Hannibal."

Murdock wiped his eyes again with the heels of his palms. "Face, I'm scared now. Scared of a lot of things. Scared isn't good in a pilot. Scared isn't good for... for anything much. And I get hit with these... Look at me. I can't stop crying and I don' even know what I'm cryin' _for_, Face!"

His voice broke and he bit his lip, hard. It quivered and he turned away. For a long moment, Face was quiet. He processed the words slowly, then lowered his head again as he finally spoke.

"We don't just want you for a pilot, Murdock. Frankly, I couldn't give a damn about that."

"For real, Facey? What the hell else am I good for? I ain't you, or Hannibal, or BA. I never had your skills."

"So?"

"I'm... I'm a mess and I'm scared of messing things up."

"That supposed to make _me _scared of you messing things up?"

"Face, look at me." Murdock set a shaky hand on his shoulder, but Face didn't look up. "I can't hold it together jus' seein' the sky and the ocean and bein' with you guys again. What am I gonna do with a snafu, man? You don't really want me. Not like this. You don't know..."

Face waited. He could feel Murdock's eyes on him, hand on his shoulder. Finally, he took a deep breath as he turned and met Murdock's stare, dead on. Murdock visibly flinched at the eye contact, but he didn't look away.

"Listen, Murdock. I don't know what happened," he choked, "back there. Why you ended up in there. I know that Hannibal went through - God, you don't want to know the kind of stunts he had to pull - to get a hold of that damn report on your chopper. But he had to see it. I didn't. I didn't _want_ to see it. Because I don't care. Alright?"

Murdock's eyes were wide, scared. Face sighed, and looked away, leaning forward and covering his face with his hand. "It's not..."

Damn it, everything he wanted to say was coming out wrong. The thoughts were wrong before they even made it to his mouth. He tried every which way to put them together, and finally gave up with a frustrated sigh, turning to look at Murdock again.

"It's not about _you_, damn it."

Confused and fearful, Murdock stared back at him. "Then what's it about?"

Face choked. Jesus Christ, were those tears blurring his vision? He snapped his head eyes away, turned his head in the opposite direction, and took a few deep, slow breaths, pulling it together. He needed a minute. He needed to go away, just for a minute. But no level of torture had ever been so hard to separate himself from.

He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes hard, and resolved to just wait it out. Clear head. Stop thinking. Shut these screaming emotions the fuck _down_. He didn't do this anymore. He _couldn't _do this anymore. He couldn't feel on this level now. He wouldn't. He breathed slow and deep, shoulders rising and falling as he kept his head turned the other way.

Murdock's eyes were still on him. And after a long moment, he felt Murdock's arm around his shoulders. "Hey, buddy, I'm doin' okay. I'll be fine. I just... I'll get a grip. I just... It's fine. We're doin' fine, right?"

The string of assurances did nothing to clear Face's head. But Murdock kept them coming. As he finally stopped, he bowed his head until it was resting against Face's. "I'm sorry, man. I can... I can get on top of it."

Face didn't acknowledge Murdock. But he didn't pull away, either. After a long pause, he finally took in a breath. "Murdock, I don't know if you realize this. But we have more than enough money to live comfortably - _modestly_, but comfortably - for the rest of our lives. All three of us. This is not about doing jobs and getting paid and needing your help to do them."

Murdock moved back a little, looking at Face in confusion. "What's it about?"

Face glanced up at him. "This scenario, this whole damn thing, is about the fact that we stood in a hotel room in New York City and said 'Let's split up because we'll be safer.' And it was the stupidest thing - bar none - that this team has ever done. Because we weren't safer. We were just separated."

Murdock said nothing. Face sighed as he looked out over the water again. "You're separated from the team, Murdock," he whispered. "And that does not make you - or us - any safer."

Murdock was quiet for a moment, considering that. When he finally spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "The hospital feels pretty safe, actually. I know what's going on there. And anyone, anything I miss? I know I'm not actually bein' a danger to them. I can live with that."

Face lowered his gaze away and sighed. "Murdock, if you want to spend the rest of your life there, I can respect that. But don't you dare say - or even think - that you did it because of us. You don't get to put that on us."

Murdock recoiled, pulling his knees up to his chest. "When I'm at my worst, and when they pump me full of meds, I don't want_ anything_, Facey. Don't feel anything. Don't care about anything, either. An' that's kinda good. But..."

He trailed off and Face glanced at him. He was hugging his knees tight, rocking, gnawing on his bottom lip. "Face, sometimes, I don't know if it's the meds or me, I... I wanna be with you guys. No matter what. 'Cause I ain't never had friends like you an' I'm lonely. An' I'd like a dog but you can't have one in the hospital. But I'm a _designated _risk to myself and others, that's why I'm in there. And I can live without a lot, just about everything, but if I was... If I..."

He took in a shuddering breath and hid his face as he rocked harder, speaking down towards his chest. "I'm so fucking scared, Facey. I'm scared of me. I'm scared of you. I'm scared. And I don't know what to do."

Face stared at him, listening, watching him rock. His words and tone and motions all matched. He really was terrified. And there was no way of convincing him that there was nothing to be so afraid of. He wasn't even sure how much Murdock could engage with the world, at this point.

Face's look and tone was just as calm as Murdock's was panicked. "Hey."

The hand on Murdock's shoulder made him look up, swallowing hard. But though his eyes were still wide and scared and his jaw was trembling, he wasn't crying. His dark eyes were steady. Lucid.

"You okay?"

Murdock tried a smile, though his teeth chattered as soon as he unclenched his jaw. "I'm not freaking out. I'm trying not to freak out. I... I think maybe it makes sense for me to be scared. And that scares me."

Face actually chuckled at that. "Now there's some circular logic for you."

Murdock chuckled through his chattering teeth. "I ain't too sure it's logic of any kind, Faceman. Maybe it's just crazy talk. I just... I don't know much of anything anymore. I wanna be okay. But... I don't know anymore."

Face let his hand drop. Whether or not Murdock was freaking out, Face found it hard to be intimidated by it. That thought, in the back of his mind, amused him. A few years ago, this would've been the stuff nightmares were made of.

With a sigh, Face laid back, flat on the sand with fine disregard for the designer suit. "I need a fucking cigarette."

Murdock actually laughed at that. A little too high and a little too long, but he laughed. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to spill all over you."

"Don't worry about it."

"Yeah. You know, I could probably use a cigarette too. Been a long time since I had a smoke... Shit. I'm sorry. Maybe I should go back, jus' to keep you guys sane with not havin' to deal with me goin' batshit."

Face closed his eyes, shook his head. "Murdock... I don't care if you're crazy."

"You don't?"

Face paused for a long moment, reflecting. "I'm gonna spend the rest of my life in an eight-by-ten cell when this is all over. But in the meantime, a far as I'm concerned, you're a part of this team. And I really don't give a damn about your doctors and your diagnosis. To be perfectly honest, I really don't even care about the consequences." He turned his head, looking up at Murdock. "It's still good to see you."

This time, Murdock's smile was genuine. It spread across his whole face. "Hey! No defeatist talk, Lieutenant! You ain't gonna be caught an you ain't goin' to jail. You're too damn good. _Hannibal's _too damn good to let it happen."

"Yeah, we'll see."

"Well, hell, I'd do anything it took to see that don't ever happen. And it's good to see you too, man. It... Well it hasn't really been three years for me, but I... well... I may have kinda missed you. So don't you talk about endin' up in some cell."

Face smirked. It was the inevitable outcome of all this, and he knew it. But Murdock didn't need to be faced with that reality. Not yet. He'd figure it out for himself, soon enough.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"I can't guarantee the incompetency of the defense lawyer for the A-Team."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Hannibal cast a glance at BA and Frankie - both sleeping soundly for very different reasons - as he turned the volume on the cassette player up slightly to hear it over the sound of the plane's engines.

"It means that your testimony may also incriminate you on some of your less, shall we say, patriotic endeavors of late."

Curtis was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, Josh. You can't expect that I would even consider employing your help on something so important without first checking your background. What you have to gain from this and what, precisely, your grudge is against Colonel Smith."

Hannibal had been listening to these tapes for most of the ride back, and he still hadn't been able to determine that. This wasn't exactly the way he had imagined this operation coming together. It had been obvious that Stockwell was using Curtis from the moment he'd walked into that barn and taken them all away in handcuffs. But it was less obvious to see that Curtis had thought he was using Stockwell. And to what end?

"I say all of this not because I care about your gun running, and not because I think it would make you any less useful to me. I merely want to establish the rules by which we will be playing if, in fact, I choose to accept your offer to help."

"What rules?" Curtis demanded.

"This is bound to be a very delicate situation, Captain. I'll not have you running off on your own agenda. Your willingness to be used as a mouthpiece poses a very interesting set of possibilities. However, I have not gone through all of this preparation to merely serve your ends. I am more than capable of doing this without you. With that said, if you are amenable to my terms, I do not see why we couldn't come to a mutually beneficial agreement."

The door to the cockpit opened. Face stepped through silently, and cast a long, lingering glance at Frankie. Hannibal had to smile. "I don't think he took a nap when I told him to."

"Too busy on that damn Nintendo," Face answered under his breath. It was the one thing about their new living situation that Frankie had taken an instant liking to.

Face put Murdock's file back into the cabinet, then sat down in the chair across from Hannibal, holding his head.

"What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"

"You have to ask?"

Hannibal smiled knowingly, switching the recording off. He didn't speak, just waited for Face to continue. He knew he would.

"He orchestrated all of this, didn't he?" Face asked quietly. "Right from the start."

Hannibal leaned back. "Sure does look that way."

One thing was for damn sure, there had been no question about what Curtis was going to say on that stand. He'd taken his lines from Stockwell, and rehearsed them like a pro. But as Hannibal glanced at the date stenciled in on the front of the tape, he did a double take. This conversation had been almost two years ago. Why had it taken Stockwell so long to make his move if he'd had Curtis for that long?

Hannibal checked the date on the first tape he'd listened to. It was from just a few weeks ago, right smack in the middle of the trial. Now that was just bound to be interesting...

"How do you think he did it?" Face asked. He glanced up and locked eyes with Hannibal. "You think he was waiting for a convenient hostage situation? Or did he set it up?"

"My gut tells me the man leaves nothing to chance."

"You know, if that's the case, he would've been perfectly fine with the blood of all those people on his hands. If we'd failed."

"I don't think he would've batted an eyelash. Except that it would've meant he wasted an awful lot of time doing useless surveillance."

Face nodded to the tape in Hannibal's hand. "Those are the conversations with Curtis?"

"Yeah."

"Anything I should know?"

"It's a pretty good guess Stockwell was the one who killed Curtis."

"Well, hell, I could've told you that."

"The more interesting thing is that, if you remember, Sulé confessed. Even afraid for his life, he confessed."

"He was more afraid of Stockwell than he was of us."

"Or Stockwell used him to kill Curtis. Either way, Curtis had no idea."

Face sighed. "You know, Hannibal, this is an awful lot like sorting through a half dozen puzzles that have been dumped on the floor and you don't know which pieces go to which frame."

"I got a feeling working for him is just going to be like that."

Face nodded, staring quietly at the wall. And once again, he was off in his own little world.

*X*X*X*

Stockwell was waiting for the plane. By the time they lowered the steps, he was at the bottom of them, hands in his suit pockets, practiced smile on his face as Colonel Smith stepped down to greet him. There was no telling just how much they had uncovered in the six hours that they had been gone. Stockwell didn't even want to think about it. It had never even occurred to him that they would be so brazen as to actually steal his plane. Now, he was wondering why it hadn't. Smith was capable of damn near anything. It was at once what made him invaluable and what made him dangerously unpredictable.

Halfway down the steps, the man was smiling. "Good morning, General. Kind of warm out today."

Stockwell waited to respond until Smith was on the ground. He wasn't about to crane his neck to speak to him. The one true consolation he had was that everything of true importance, every secret and scrap of information that he felt held true power, was _not _kept on his plane. It was an archive, of sorts. And while he sure as hell wasn't happy about them shuffling through it, the situation truly could have been much worse.

"Good of you to make it back in a timely manner, Colonel."

He didn't bother to add the bit about what the consequences would have been if Smith had chosen not to return in a timely manner. There was no need for a direct confrontation. The plane and his team were both back in his control. And Smith would almost certainly be feeling better after his little show of defiance.

This was not the first time Stockwell had dealt with someone like Smith. Granted Smith was proving to be a bit more unpredictable then the others. Still, he had pushed a boundary and been called to heel. The fact that he had taken his own time to return served as an impetus for Stockwell to dig a little further and amend his methods of watching this team.

As expected, Smith gave a full smile, glancing over his shoulder as the others began to filter out. "We weren't looking to make an extended vacation out of it. Just a midnight outing."

"Then thankfully you enjoyed yourself, as we already established this will not be happening again."

"Don't worry, Stockwell. It has no reason to happen again. I don't imagine it will be too long before you have us actually _doing_ something instead of just sitting on our asses looking for something to keep us busy."

"I'm glad you're so eager." Stockwell gave them his best indulgent, condescending smile. "You can be assured that your services will be needed in the not too distant future."

Casually, Stockwell motioned to his agents. Like dogs eager to please, they where bounding up the steps. This was just a cursory sweep. He would have the jet thoroughly searched and sanitized after Smith and his team were seen to. He made a note to have the cockpit inspected, as well. Not only was their captain without a pilot's license, he was just cunning enough to try something unexpected.

Adjusting his glasses, he gave Smith a flat smile. "I would, in fact, be willing to hazard a guess that it won't be to long before you are pining for time to sit on your... laurels and rest."

"Well, it will certainly be a much quieter life for your security team when we are." The others were already heading away from the plane. Smith began walking as well, casually. "Any ideas yet on that first mission?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, Colonel, I'm keeping a close eye on a number of rather interesting events unfolding." Stockwell nodded to the remaining guards outside the jet and walked with Smith, hands behind his back. "However, in light of your recent outing, as you called it, I believe it's best if I focus on some internal restructuring first."

"Restructure all you'd like, General. It's not going to change anything. And you went through an awful lot of trouble to lock us in a cage and pay for our room and board."

Stockwell's smile held. "Yes, I believe in thoroughness, Colonel."

Just the information on the plane proved that.

"I hope you don't also believe that we'll be staying here indefinitely just to indulge your thoroughness. I had thought the problem would be with you trying to work us to death. Now I see it's the exact opposite. You don't really seem to have a lot of work for us. And if that's the case, it makes me wonder why you would go through so much trouble to employ us."

"You need not worry yourself about my motives or methods of operations, Colonel Smith. I am very certain that that our relationship will become self evident."

"Oh, I'm not at all worried. Especially now that I've had a chance to get to know your motives and methods of operation a bit better."

Stockwell stopped as his driver jumped out of the limo and opened the door for him. At least someone in his employ knew their place and their job and how to do it. "Well, now that we have a better understanding of one another, I'm sure we will not have these issues in the future."

Smith only smiled. Stockwell smiled back. The man's attempts at posturing and gathering information were both amusing and annoying. The Colonel would find both to be futile. In reality it amounted to nothing more than an inconvenience - one that Stockwell would use to his advantage.

He inclined his head to the Abels in the distance. Carla was waiting, hands patiently folded, as he gave his final address to the team. "These gentlemen will see you back to the compound."

As they followed obediently, Carla smiled. "General, the replacement for Abel 8 has arrived."

His smile that was smug this time. It was about time. Now, things were bound to get interesting.

*X*X*X*

"You realize it's been two weeks since we got here?"

Hannibal glanced at Frankie, away from the commercial that was on TV. But Face was first to answer. "You sound surprised."

Frankie answered him with a frown. "Yeah, well, I mean, it's been a nice vacation and all but I'm kinda anxious to get the ball rollin'. Know what I'm sayin'?"

Hannibal smiled. "Enjoy it while you can, Frank."

"Yeah, I don't imagine it'll be too long before Stockwell decides our adjustment period has gone on long enough," Face added.

"You guys tellin' me that you're _not _goin' stir crazy here?" Frankie challenged, clearly amused by the thought.

Face smile. "I can say honestly I would have no issues at all if every assignment Stockwell sent us on is exactly as exciting as the past few days have been."

"Except he hasn't sent us on any assignments," Frankie reminded. "Which means we're not any closer to freedom."

"Besides, Lieutenant," Hannibal added, "you'd get bored."

"Bored is a relative state of mind. If I really need excitement, I'm sure I can make my own." Face folded his hands in his lap. "Or I could always call Murdock, he's good at making things interesting."

"I just wanna get this done and over with, you know what I mean?" Frankie sighed. "The waiting is the worst."

Hannibal turned his gaze back to the TV as Frankie continued.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not all that excited about suicide missions." His voice changed, the way it always did when he said those words. "But I wanna get them done and over with, you know what I mean? Get on with our lives out in the real world."

Face answered before Hannibal could. "That assumes that there is an end, and that it doesn't involve being on the wrong side of a bullet."

Hannibal chuckled. "Face, your optimism is overwhelming."

"If you're looking for optimism, I suggest talking to Murdock about his new job." With a causal grace, Face crossed one leg over his knee. "As for myself, I prefer realism."

"New job?" Frankie asked, curiously. "What happened to the job at the pound?"

"According to Murdock it involved a Marxist-leaning Shitzu, a leftist poodle mix, and a British Bulldog getting into a heated political debate."

Hannibal looked up as the front door opened, and over the back of the sofa as Stockwell stepped in with a smile on his face and hands in the pockets of his suit slacks.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Of course not," Hannibal answered.

There was someone behind him. Someone that made Frankie perk up. If that was the case, it had to be a woman.

"I trust you gentlemen have been familiarizing yourself with the new security system."

Hannibal gave a yawn. "The place is nice, if that's what you're getting at."

"Not quite as nice as _freedom_," Face inserted, "_but_... nice."

"So why the social call, Stockwell?" Hannibal asked. "You're minus one female assistant, so I'm assuming you did not come to brief us on our first mission."

"You assume correctly, Colonel Smith. But this is not strictly a social call."

Hannibal smiled. "Of course not."

Stockwell paused long enough to adjust his tie. "Certain adjustments were deemed necessary after some of your recent activities."

He was smiling, so smug, so arrogant that whatever he was building up to, he was very sure it would gain an advantage, make a point. More telling, he wanted Hannibal to _know _he felt that. This would be good.

"To that end, allow me in introduce you to Abel 8."

Stockwell gestured with one hand towards the door. Strutting in, wearing a finely fitted red business skirt, tasteful high end designer heels, a 9mm, and a confident smile was none other than Agent Suzanne Davids.

Hannibal looked at her, then at Stockwell, then laughed. "Are you kidding?"

"I don't kid, Colonel. Ever. Abel 8, these are three of the men you will be assigned to guard and... assist. Frankie Santana, Lieutenant Templeton Peck, and, of course, Colonel Hannibal Smith."

Frankie looked her up and down with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance."

"Yes," she answered politely.

Face raised an eyebrow and flicked a quick glance at Hannibal, but chose to say nothing. Hannibal didn't hide his smile, or take his eyes off her. As he watched the look on her face, he couldn't help but wonder just how interesting she was going to make life here.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

She had been waiting for three hours in the motel room. It felt like years. Three hours late. She was pacing. What if something was wrong? What if something had happened to him? What if this wasn't really real? Some kind of joke. With the kind of life he'd always led, even if it _was _real, it could be damn near anything that had happened to him. It didn't even have to be something work-related. He could've even gotten into an accident on the way here. How would she even know? How would she contact any of them?

She couldn't. They were all dead. This was all just a dream. Or at least, it felt like it.

Too soon to panic. Three hours late. He was never late...

When she'd gotten the note, attached to a dozen red roses, she'd left work instantly. She'd made sure the kids had money for food, and asked Mrs. Parks if she could check on them for the next two days. It wasn't really necessary. They weren't really kids anymore; they would be heading to college soon. But still, she had a responsibility, right?

It had taken her two hours to make the arrangements and be at the airport, where she had picked up the ticket that was waiting for her. Once she arrived at DC National, she got the rental car. She found the directions in the glove box, just like he'd said she would. She had no idea how he managed to arrange everything, and she couldn't care less. All she could think about was seeing him again.

Almost a month, since the execution. She'd watched it on TV. She'd wept for days. Numb and cold, she'd ceased to function. He was dead, and her world was gone. Then, the letter. The flowers. It couldn't be him. But no one else would know to say that. No one else would understand.

It couldn't be him. The news reports had said he was executed. But he'd sent her flowers every single day since then - always things that only he would know. It couldn't be him. But it was. He was alive.

Just the thought of being with him again had her breathing a little faster. The drive had taken forever, but the wait alone in the room was taking longer. She should've known better than to rush. His note had said he wouldn't be there until seven. She'd been here since six. It was ten minutes after ten now. Three hours and ten minutes late. Still too soon to panic. Not too soon to pace. She was wearing a path in the carpet.

Was she wrong? Had she misunderstood? Who else could know those things? There was no one. It had to be him. She'd known it from the first batch of flowers. It was him. It just _felt _like him. She'd see him soon. He'd promised that. She'd gone out the first chance she'd gotten, found the sexiest piece of lingerie she could pull off, and packed it in her suitcase. And she'd waited. She'd waited every day for his flowers, his notes. Until he'd sent her a flight number. Then the wait was over.

So she'd thought.

Her stomach was tied in knots. She fixed her hair for the hundredth time. Stared at the clock. Stared out the window. Sat down on the edge of the bed. TV on, TV off. Pace some more. Three hours and twenty-two minutes.

Footsteps. She spun to stare at the door. Him? Was it him? Knock. It was him. She literally ran to the door, and completely forgot to look out the peephole as she flung it open.

She was looking at the crown of his head, blonde hair with highlights. Alive. He was alive. He was standing right there in front of her. Head still lowered, his eyes rose as the door opened, and locked on hers. Before she could say a word, she was lost. She had to fight the urge to step back, away from the intensity in his stare. She wanted to scream and to cry and to hold him until he knew she would never let him go again. Instead, it was all she could do to breathe.

There was an entire world of emotions in his eyes. Need, relief, worry, hunger, lust, regret and something else that she had never seen in him before. Her eyes burned with tears of joy and disbelief. It was him. She was really and truly staring at him. "Face..."

She didn't even see him move. He was just suddenly there, hard and solid against her, kissing her like his life depended on it. She heard the door close just before her back was pressed up against it, his hand in her hair. Touch him. She had to touch him. Her hands went to his chest, pulling his shirt apart with no regard for the buttons, feeling for bullet holes. He was alive. He was truly alive, truly here.

Hungry, desperate for more, she opened her mouth and let him claim her. He shrugged his shoulders out of the shirt as she pushed it and the jacket back, both at once. Her hands moved everywhere over him, reassuring herself that he was solid and real and there. His hands on her were just as desperate - needful, possessive, pushing the thin silk of the lingerie up, over her breasts, ripping it when it got in his way. As his arms slid behind her again, he pulled her tight against him. Skin on skin. She was shaking, knees weak as he took a few blind steps back towards the dresser.

There was nothing but him, his mouth on hers, his hands touching her, bringing her to life. She was sobbing into his kiss, tears already flowing down her cheeks. She didn't even know when they'd started.

"My God, Face..."

Words were unnecessary. Everything had already been communicated, all at once. No thought, just primal need, the body's ability to communicate what the mind couldn't comprehend or express. From the second he'd looked at her, she was ready. Like a lighting strike, just that fast. Every second she'd waited since that moment had lasted forever. She couldn't explain it. She didn't care. All she knew was that she had never needed anything the way she needed him right now. He was alive.

He pulled her to him hard, crushing her lips with his. He held her still, held her tight, and in the midst of the bruising kiss, cupped both hands over her breasts. She was shaking, nails raking him, clinging to him. Right now, she _lived _to touch him and be touched by him. Her hand went from his stomach to the front of his pants, ripping them open, shoving them down.

Arms around her, feeling everywhere up and down her back, he cleared the top of the dresser with one sweep of his arm. She was moving, being lifted. It didn't matter, just as long as he was touching, kissing her. He pushed her legs apart, holding her knees. Heart pounding. Wet with need. Suddenly, he was inside of her. She sobbed, shaking, eyes shut hard as the tears flowed. Her hands were shaking, and she held his shoulders tight to stop them. Lips still locked in that same desperate, unending kiss, he gave a deep and desperate moan that seemed to come from all the way down inside of him.

His hands on her hips were tight - almost bruising. She was barely aware when he moved her, pushing her back up against the wall. There was too much sensation - skin touching skin, lips to mouth, tongue to teeth, soft to hard, him to her, pleasure, need, all of it trying to find its way through their bodies. He was inside of her, filling her, completing her. That part of her that had died with him flared back to life, and she held him as tightly as she could.

His breathing hitched - his tongue dominating hers, hips pounding, her pulse racing, blood screaming in her ears. Her desperate gasps sounded more and more like his name the closer she came to climax until finally, her muscles tightened on their own and she bucked hard against him, screaming and sobbing his name, nails raking his skin. He pounded her against the wall, driving into her with such force the mirror above the dresser rattled. Teeth on her shoulder, a quick flash of pain that mingled with the pleasure. She shook violently as she clung to him. She could feel him coming inside of her, and it went on forever, filling her, touching her like only he could. She let go, every nerve and muscle in her body contracting and then releasing, ultimately leaving her shaking violently in his arms.

Slowly, his teeth unclenched from around her soft flesh. He was gasping for air, and she could feel the sweat from his body mingling with hers. Hot tears were falling on her shoulder as he slowly, gently kissed the marks his teeth had left, turning his face into her neck, kissing softly. Slowly, reluctantly, she came back to herself. When she opened her eyes, would he be gone? Would this all just be a beautiful, torturous dream? She never, ever wanted to wake up.

The first thing she was truly aware of was his scent. That sandalwood, soap, and Face smell that only he had. When he was dead, she'd slept in one of his shirts, just so she could be surrounded by that scent. It was tied to him and all he was to her - love, safety, want, adventure, pleasure.

And now he was alive again.

The tears ran down her cheeks in rivers as he kissed her, over and over, holding her close. Finally, his lips against her ear quieted her - the sound of his breathing, the warmth of it. "I love you," he breathed.

She dropped her head to his shoulder, weeping as he nipped lightly at her earlobe. "Face..." It was all she could manage. All she could think of.

"I've missed you."

Still sobbing, she clung to him desperately. "Don't leave me."

He nuzzled her gently. "It's okay, Jess. I'm right here."

*X*X*X*

Face watched the sleeping figure beside him in silence, fingers gently stroking back and forth over her soft skin. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, she'd fallen asleep after hours of intimate lovemaking. Everything he had thought he would say to her, he didn't say. She never asked what had happened, as if it just didn't matter. She barely even said a word, except for the quiet sobs that sometimes included his name. There were no words for this.

His body was tired. His mind was racing. He'd told himself that he was coming here tonight to say goodbye, but he'd known that was bullshit from the moment it entered his mind. It was an excuse to bring her here, to justify the danger he was putting her in. If Stockwell would lay the lives of dozens of innocent people on the line to manipulate the team, there was no doubt in his mind that he would use her. He couldn't let that happen. As ridiculous as the thought was to the part of him that would actually carry it out, he needed to cut contact with her in order to truly keep her safe.

But he couldn't. Those words had been lost within seconds of seeing her again. He couldn't live without this, without her. It was selfish, maybe even wrong. But if so, he was unrepentant. This feeling he had with her was everything he'd wanted his whole life. She was at once everything he had ever wanted from a mother and a lover - a deep well of unconditional love. He had that unconditional love within the team, too, and he knew it. But hers was different. It was feminine and sexual, and it touched him in a way that they couldn't. It didn't define him, the way the team did. It validated everything he already knew, embraced, and valued about himself. Everything that was good in him, she brought it to the surface. That wasn't just a line from romantic movies anymore. It was a reality. She brought out everything beautiful and good and right in him.

He would've been horrified by the fact that he had tears in his eyes, but there was no one to see them. He moved his hand to brush her hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. What were the chances that he could keep this hidden from Stockwell? The man had watched them for years and they hadn't even known it. He had more reason now than ever to keep a tight fist, to step up his security, not let it grow lax.

She moaned softly, turning towards him and nuzzling against the pillow, whimpering a sound that was almost like his name. His eyes drifted to the clock, then back to her. In another hour, the sun would be up. If he had any hope of keeping this a secret, he needed to be back at the compound by then.

Blinking back the tears in his eyes, he leaned closer to her and pressed his lips gently to her forehead. She smiled, and for a moment, he wondered just how awake she was. Dropping his head a bit, he nuzzled her gently, setting soft kisses on her jaw.

He kissed her closed eyes, one at a time, then put his arm around her, pulling her in close to his warmth as he whispered with his lips against her ear. "I love you, Jessica. And I'll do _anything_ I have to, to keep you safe."


	21. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

"So where did you disappear to last night?"

Face looked up from the book he was reading - or at least pretending to read - as Frankie settled on the chair across from him with a glass of the god-awful cheap wine Stockwell had left them as a "housewarming gift."

"You're actually drinking that?"

Frankie looked at him, bewildered. "What's wrong with it?"

Putting the book down, Face sighed. "Well, once you get over that lovely vinegar palate... Nothing, I guess."

Frankie shrugged. "Hey, make the best with what we've got, right?"

Face watched him as he took a gulp. No wonder why he didn't mind the fact it tasted like wood alcohol. He wasn't even tasting it.

"It's not that bad. And, hey, we didn't even have to pay for it."

Face was not impressed. Of course, he never had to pay for much of anything. He'd long ago mastered the art of persuading people to give him any and everything he wanted. Besides, who knew what Stockwell might have put in that bottle? Face smiled as he considered that. Stockwell had gone through an awful lot of trouble just to poison them...

Face sighed as he looked back at his book. He hadn't been reading it for a while, but right now, he wasn't even bringing the words into focus on the page. Frankie's question, while easily avoidable, alerted him to what Stockwell knew. Of course, he fully expected that Stockwell would find out he'd left the compound last night. Leaving hadn't been the hard part. Even ditching the lackeys hadn't been terribly difficult. It had been a little trickier to get to the motel clear on the other side of town, where he was sure no one would look at him. Jessica had been waiting for him, shocked and elated that he was alive. This time, she had a reason to be shocked. This time, she almost _had _lost him.

"You seen that chick Stockwell brought in here this morning?"

Face cast a brief, questioning look at Frankie. How could he have not seen Suzanne? Stockwell had paraded her in front of all of them. There was a motive behind that, too.

"Between her and Carla, looks to me like Stockwell doesn't take job applications that don't have 'hot' in the resume."

Very carefully, Face crafted a sly smirk. "Yeah. But just like the wine, I wouldn't touch those girls."

Frankie's brows raised. "You're saying you wouldn't jump that?"

"They're on Stockwell's payroll."

"So?"

"So, that says it all."

"Aw, come on. What's the worst he's gonna do?" Frankie sat back with a smile. "He said we gotta work for him, didn't say we couldn't enjoy it."

"Do what you want," Face said dismissively. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"You see the way Hannibal looked at her?"

"Suzanne?"

"Definitely some sexual tension there."

Face almost laughed. "Ya think?"

"Yeah. If I didn't know better, I'd say those two knew each other from somewhere. She didn't look anywhere but at him, the whole time."

Face went back to his book. "Wow, Frankie. That's very perceptive of you."

"Hey, you've known him longer than I have. What're the chances, huh?"

"Chances of what?"

"Well, I mean, I don't wanna make a play for her if Hannibal's got a thing going."

Face stopped at that, and stared at Frankie, who was staring at him in earnest. After the long moment it took to process that yes, indeed, Frankie was one hundred percent serious, Face gave him a broad smile.

"Frankie, I would _love _to see you make a play for her."

Frankie must have taken it as sarcasm, by the way he straightened his posture. But in fact, Face was totally serious.

"You think I couldn't?" Frankie challenged. "'Cause I mean, hey, if Hannibal's not going to..."

Suppressing his smile, Face looked back at the book again. "I think Hannibal is on the same page as me. Stockwell's women are vipers. Fun to look at, but dangerous to touch. And if you'd like, you're more than welcome to quote me on that."

***X*X*X***

She was in the pool house. God knew what she was doing in here, but Hannibal had seen her go in about twenty minutes ago. The front door was locked, and that generally meant that someone was doing something in there like re-planting the bugs they'd swept. But that seemed a little forward. He would've assumed she was still trying to get familiar with the grounds - her new "work environment." She'd spent the afternoon with one of Stockwell's other agents at her side the entire time. She'd only stepped out on her own two feet about an hour ago. Then she'd disappeared until she'd shown up here.

Hannibal checked around casually before he picked the lock to get into the pool house. He didn't want anyone following him inside. But he was pretty sure they were all busy elsewhere. This place was always crawling with Stockwell's guards, but they had their work cut out for them in trying to keep the electronic security measures operational. In the two boring weeks since they'd arrived, the team made sure of it. It gave the guards something to do, so they could earn those paychecks.

Besides, until Stockwell sent them out on one of these promised suicide missions, there was really nothing better to do. And Hannibal, at least, was practically dying of boredom.

He found her in the kitchen, buried under the kitchen sink. On her back, with one knee bent and the other leg out, clanking around with metal against metal. What on God's green earth was she doing under there? Fixing the plumbing? She sure wasn't dressed for it. He let his eyes run slowly over her long, smooth legs, up to the red skirt that stopped a sensible two inches above the knee but at the moment was hiked high enough for him to see the lace top of the stocking on her right leg. He felt a slight smile creep across his face. Nice...

Careful to remain completely silent, he slid over to the sink. He stopped when he was close enough to touch her, but no so close that she could catch the movement in her peripheral vision. She had a gorgeous set of legs, and he had a beautiful view. He leaned his hip on the counter, arms loosely crossed, enjoying it.

The clanking stopped at long length, and she scooted out from under the sink, wriggling on the floor as she tried to get leverage. Looking up at the ceiling, she also found herself looking up at him. She gasped, startled, and whipped around until she was on her knees so that she wasn't staring up at him from the flat of her back.

"Hello, Suzy."  
She was always so sure of herself. He loved that about her. And he loved watching that confidence falter when she found herself caught off guard. He smiled as she glared at him.

"How did you get in here?" she demanded.

He raised a brow. "You're kidding, right?"

She really shouldn't have been shocked that he'd managed to get into the pool house. A locked door had never been much of a diversion. But still, he'd managed to startle her. And the look of shock was well worth the wait. But he had expected her to recover quickly and she didn't disappoint.

"Have you ever thought about wearing a bell?" she snapped at him. Using the counter top for leverage she pulled herself up and smoothed her skirt down. "It might be a little safer for everyone."

He grinned. "Safer? Announcing my presence to the enemy?" His tone made it clear that if he considered her an enemy, he certainly didn't have any sense of feeling threatened.

"The enemy?" She gave him a smile. "Colonel, there must be a misunderstanding. We're on the same side now."

"We might be on the same side of the _law_ - technically speaking - but we're far from on the same side."

"I'm hurt," she mocked, touching her fingers delicately to her chest. "I really thought this might be the beginning of a new, more cooperative friendship."

He raised a brow. "If you wanted a friendship, placing listening devices in odd places to try and eavesdrop is not the best way to go about it."

Still smiling, she gave a little shrug at that. "Eavesdropping on coworkers is part and parcel of the whole business."

"_Your_ business, maybe."

"Same employer, same business. Just slightly different functions."

"Maybe I'm a little unclear on your new job description. I see this situation through a very 'us and them' lens. And Stockwell's lackeys are all very much 'them.' That would include you."

She smiled. "Comparing me to the other Abels won't work to your benefit, Smith." She leaned back against the counter and loosely crossed her arms, relaxed. "Apples to oranges."

"You are much nicer to look at, I'll give you that." His eyes raked her up and down.

"True. And I'm also much better at my job then they are."

He chuckled. "I'm sure you will do a much better job of policing us than they could ever hope to," he said mockingly. She really was very amusing when she went through the effort of making herself appear bigger and badder than she really was.

Tilting her head a little, she studied him. "Don't think of it as policing. Think of it as facilitating."

"Facilitating?" That was a very interesting way of putting it.

"I could make things easier for everyone, you know."

"I rarely look for the easy way out. It's simply not as much fun."

"And I'm sure you do enjoy foiling Stockwell's lackeys - as you put it - at every turn."

"I do. But you're different, right?"

"That's right," she answered confidently.

He took a step closer, hand on the counter, pressing in on her and reaching behind her to grab the counter on her other side. She had to turn to put even the slightest space between them, and then she found herself pinned between his arms on the countertop.

"You know, I can think of a few ways you could facilitate that would be far more suited to your personal talents."

"I'm sure you could," she answered quietly, pulling her head back a little to maintain steady eye contact. "But your exposure to my talents has been limited. And actually, I was referring to my ability to make your life here at the estate less... contentious."

He raised a brow. That was an interesting, if unexpected, proposition. "Is that why he hired you? Or is this your own initiative?"

He could tell by the way her eyes changed that his suggestion was not at all her intention. "Just what exactly do you think I'm proposing here?"

He didn't answer, just raised a brow and waited for her to clarify.

Indignant, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe that you would cooperate for _sex_?"

He laughed loudly. "I've been very cooperative with this whole charade. Stockwell doesn't need you - sex or no - to ensure my cooperation; all he needed was my word. Besides." He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "If a good romp in the hay was that high a priority for me, I wouldn't have to trade anything for it." His hand left the countertop and traced down the buttons of her shirt, watching her eyes with a dark, knowing smile. "And we both know that."

Her eyes held onto his as her jaw clenched tightly. She lifted a hand between the two of them and put her palm flat on his chest, shoving him back with just enough force to make her message clear. "I don't have a clue about what you _think_ you know, but I will tell you this right now. If you humiliate me in front of Stockwell, I swear to fucking God, Hannibal, I will murder you in your sleep."

"That's quite a threat," he answered, amused.

She growled. "I worked damn hard to get into this position."

"Maybe next time you should just try flat on your back."

She ignored him. "If you fuck this up for me - I am so serious - I will hate you. Do _not _sabotage me."

He watched her for a moment, evaluating her tone. It was the first warning from her in five years that he found himself actually taking seriously. Not because he was afraid of her, but because she clearly meant for it to be taken seriously. It was different from her token protests and banter and wit. This wasn't just about having to come up with some explanation that was slightly less embarrassing than the truth. She saw Stockwell as her key to furthering her career - although how she figured that would work, Hannibal couldn't even begin to guess - and that was a whole different ballgame from their ongoing game of "catch me if you can."

He let the teasing tone drop from his voice and muted the smile as he considered her. "If I wanted to sabotage you, I've got better ways of doing it than putting my _own _reputation on the line."

"Your reputation?"

"We might not be on the same side, but we are working for the same man."

She laughed. "Like you give a damn what he thinks about you?"

"I do when it comes ways he thinks he can manipulate and control me."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you and I have nothing to do with Stockwell."

She paused for a long moment, considering that. When she finally spoke again, it was with a very different sort of determination. One that was mixed with curiosity. "Well, then why don't you enlighten me on what this is about?"

He chuckled at both the question and the way her eyes were searching him, blatantly reading him - or at least attempting to. "It would take all the fun out of it to have to explain the punch line. And I'm sure you're very busy. You have more bugs to plant, after all."

"Punch line?" she challenged, anger rising up over the curiosity.

His fingertips brushed just lightly over her arm before he took a step back and turned away. "Have fun, Suzy. You might try putting them inside the power outlets. They're a little harder to get to there and we don't check them quite as often."

Even with his back to her, he could almost feel her move. She took a step towards him, planted her feet and had her hand on his shoulder, and used the leverage to spin him towards her. "Damn it, Hannibal!"

He smiled as he raised a brow, amused. He loved the sight of her all flustered and frustrated. He had a feeling there hadn't been many people in her life that could actually make her look like that. "Just trying to offer a little friendly advice," he said innocently.

With a patronizing smile and a gentle tap on her shoulder, he ducked away and headed for the door. Having Suzy here was going to make things very interesting.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

BA's face was generally set to "scowl." But the scowl today seemed particularly deep. Sitting on the back deck, staring with very little amusement at the playground Stockwell had laid out for them, he looked both impatient and unimpressed. Murdock smiled as he came around the side of the house and set his sights on him immediately.

On first glance, BA was one of the biggest and baddest men Murdock had ever met. But that was just to keep people from getting close, so that nobody wouldn't see how much the petty cruelty of the world got to him. And there was plenty of pettiness here, if not cruelty.

BA needed a distraction, and Murdock was just the man to give it. Besides, he was bored and edgy waiting for Stockwell to play his games.

"Hiya big guy! Miss me?"

BA only growled in response.

Hiding his hands behind his back, Murdock strolled over towards BA with a smile. "Ah, I know you missed me. No need to be shy about it." He paused briefly. "Wanna know what's behind my back?"

"No." The voice was gruff. He didn't even turn around to look at Murdock.

"Aww come on. You're gonna love it. I promise." BA never won this game. But the fact he still played it amused Murdock to no end. "I got it at work! Brought it home just for you."

BA growled again, waving Murdock away. "I don't want nothin' you got from the pound, you crazy fool."

Yup, he already had BA on the ropes and the big guy didn't even know it. "No, not _that_ job. The SPCA and I had a... parting of the ways. It seems they were ill prepared for the canine uprising."

BA eyed him warily. It was probably a good thing that Murdock knew he wasn't going to ask.

"Besides, my _new _job has better perks. Ones that go great with milk."

BA turned and looked at him, wary of the seemingly obvious answer to that. But he didn't answer. The fact that he was looking meant Murdock had his attention. Murdock's grin grew even wider. _Gotcha, big guy. _There was something familiar and comforting in this.

Murdock put one hand out and shook the paper bag he was carrying. "Go on BA. You know you wanna look in the bag. It's right there. What could it be? Hmm. Go ahead! All the cool kids are doing it. You are cool, aren't you, BA?"

The wariness grew. But after a long moment of hesitation, he finally took the bag. Maybe he was actually curious, maybe he just wanted Murdock to stop talking and knew that compliance was the fastest way from point A to point B. Either way, it didn't matter.

He opened it and peered inside with a look of confusion. Murdock shoved his hands into his pockets, completely satisfied. "Twinkies!" he cried with joy. "You are looking at the brand new 'cream filling filler' at the Twinkie plant!"

BA groaned. "Man, I don't need no Twinkies. They ain't even real food."

"Blasphemy!" Murdock grinned. "They're one of the five basic food groups! And I get four free boxes every shift."

"What? Why would you need four boxes of Twinkies?"

Murdock smirked and shrugged and then nodded towards the bag BA was holding. "Well that's what was left of today's supply."

BA's eyes widened. "You gonna be sick, fool."

"Oh, that's just a vicious rumor spread by competitors. I'll have you know I have eaten 47 of them today alone and I feel no ill effects." He waited just a beat then added, "And I was able to run all the way here."

BA growled again as he looked away again, folding his arms over his knees. "I don't care if you got outta the VA. You ain't right, Murdock."

There was no insult in that, no conviction. Just an offhanded attempt to end the conversation, and explain why BA was unimpressed by the Twinkies. Murdock sighed.

"Aww come on BA. Live a little." He sat down next to BA, arms folded over his knees. "Try one. Or all seven. I mean, come on, not like we got anything else to do that you can't be all sugared up for."

BA didn't answer. Murdock's eyes lit up. "Or you could come and see my new place! It's real great. It's got doors and windows and a mail box and -"

"Stockwell don't want us leaving here. He gonna send us out soon." There was hope - angry hope, but hope nonetheless - in that statement.

Murdock sighed. "Come on, BA. My place is ten minutes down the road and completely bug free. They can have us back here in no time if he decides to make a move. And I have a fridge full of milk just waiting for you. Well, okay, not a fridge full, but a half gallon."

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

BA's anger was understandable, although it made Murdock sigh. BA had earned the right to be pissed. They all had. Murdock just wished there was more he could _do _about it. BA's scowl turned back to the yard, and he was quiet for a moment. But when he spoke again, his voice was just a hair softer. Just enough that Murdock would notice, but nobody who didn't know him as well would've heard.

"But you can stay here if you want."

Murdock smiled faintly. His invite was an olive branch, and Murdock would gladly take it. Besides, he never really expected BA to come to his place. The man had never liked coming to see Murdock. Fifteen years in the VA and he could count on one hand all the times he had made it. Everyone had their quirks. BA didn't pay house calls.

Still, it was a good thing he had a backup plan. "I think I'm gonna go find Face," Murdock said quietly. "If he's not moping, the way he has been since we got here. He'll _love _the Twinkies. But do you think you could do me a favor and fix this?"

The watch was an old Timex he'd found at the Salvation Army. It meant nothing to Murdock, beyond the fact it was something for BA to do, someplace to focus his attention and get his mind past the bullshit of their current situation.

"Gonna need to make sure I get to work on time, ya know?"

BA looked for a moment at the watch, then nodded silently as he took it. He'd get it fixed. Murdock smiled as he turned away and headed inside.

***X*X*X***

It had taken some time for Smith's team to adjust to their new surroundings. Stockwell had been patient. He'd watched them explore, given them the small comfort of not moving with any great haste to replace the listening devices that they located. He'd observed their interactions with the members of his security team, and he had determined with a fair amount of certainty the approach that he would have to take towards policing them would, by necessity, be a very subtle one.

That was not to say that it would be lax. Some things, he could simply not stand for. Lieutenant Peck's evasion, on foot, of two highly trained and well supplied operatives, for instance, was not acceptable. It was not sufficient to swear these men to secrecy on the matters of national importance that they would be handling while under his employ. They were to know, at all times, that they would be held accountable for their interactions with the outside world. The very last thing he needed was a media circus if any one of them should decide that they did not morally agree with the tasks they had been assigned.

It was true that he didn't truly fear that possibility. For one thing, he had full access to their classified briefings from Vietnam. The very operation that had ended their military careers was, in no uncertain term, a violation of the terms of warfare. There had been a number of others, as well, that made the strength of their moral convictions suspect. Still, they had made a point of establishing that things were different now; they were no longer soldiers. That statement, regardless of the full implications it may or may not have upon the missions he would use them for, said a lot about how much faith he could put in what he knew from their military files.

Lieutenant Peck and Mr. Santana were both lying in lounge chairs near the pool as Stockwell walked into the back yard with two women on either side of him. A quick glance from Santana turned to a double take, and he tapped Peck's shoulder to get his attention, gesturing to the entourage.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Stockwell greeted.

"Good morning," Santana answered, sitting up straight and putting his feet on the cement.

Peck was wearing a full smile as he sat up, more slowly than Santana. "Ladies," he offered. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Stockwell smiled. "Tomorrow, I will be sending you on your first assignment. In the meantime, I thought I would help you enjoy your last few hours of peace and quiet with the help of a few of my friends."

The women were not particularly what he would call friends, but they were certainly friendly. He'd obtained them from a strip club in town, at the rate of two thousand dollars each for a day's work. That sort of money, while it was mere pocket change to him, had a tendency to inspire loyalty in the receiving party. He had little doubt that he would obtain a full report on anything of interest that was disclosed. Not that he suspected there would be much talking.

As the women stepped past him, circling the two men, Stockwell's smile remained in place. His attention remained on Peck as one of the bikini-clad women sat down comfortably on his lap, stroking her fingers along his jaw. There had been numerous reports that Peck was romantically involved with one Jessica Summers in Los Angeles. But if that was the case, the attachment was not sufficient to lessen his interest in the woman on his lap.

Pleased with the reactions of both men, Stockwell bid them a good day, and did a quick check of the premises before wandering to the security outpost at the end of the drive. Separate from the house and heavily guarded, the small cement structure had only room for a handful of people and a wealth of surveillance equipment. From there, he could watch openly the effects of his experiment, without attracting the attention of the participants.

*X*X*X*

"You know, I have to admit," Rachel whispered, running her fingers lightly across Face's collarbone, "I wasn't expecting you to be nearly so handsome."

Face chuckled quietly. "I hope that's a good thing."

She smiled back. "It's a very good thing."

Face glanced up as the other woman - he hadn't gotten her name yet - handed him a can of cold beer from the cooler between him and Frankie. "You look thirsty."

He wasn't particularly thirsty. And the beer was Frankie's. But from the giggling sounds behind him, he doubted Frankie would mind in the least. Leave it to Stockwell to show up with four gorgeous women in bikinis, just to show his "benevolence."

Face took the can, turning his smile to her. "I didn't catch your name."

"Diana."

Transferring the beer to his other hand, he reached up, drawing her in close, and kissed her lips lightly. "Pleasure to meet you."

Rachel's mouth was on the side of his neck, hands wandering over his chest, down to his abs. As Diana pulled back just enough to give him a well-practiced seductive smile, he returned it.

"Vipers, huh, Face?"

Frankie sounded so smug that, for a brief moment, Face wanted to hit him. Frankie was an idiot if he thought Stockwell was doing this out of the goodness of his heart. And he was an idiot if he thought the man wasn't watching them like a hawk right now, evaluating their responses, determining whether or not women were an appropriate tool to use against them.

Of all the weapons Stockwell could use, Face had to admit that this was one he felt no concern for. He could play this game from now 'til kingdom come, and if Stockwell thought it gave him an edge, all the better. It would keep him from trying out other weapons, some of which might be more dangerous. Stockwell could use these women as a method of control, and Face would use them as a smokescreen for the areas of his life that were far more vulnerable.

Face knew his body; he knew how it would respond. He knew sex; it was a game he had mastered years ago. He felt nothing even remotely close to performance anxiety as their attention fixed on him - warm kisses and skin against skin. He pressed the cool can to Rachel's chest, and smiled as he heard her gasp. Diana's hands were massaging his shoulders. Blood was stirring in his groin.

The knowledge that Stockwell was watching, far from infuriating him, instead filled him with a smug sense of satisfaction. It was the same feeling he'd learned to tap in Las Vegas, more than a dozen years ago. People - both men and women - stared at him, and he preened. Their attention was fuel - good or bad; it didn't matter. He had learned to command attention with a smile from a young age. As he'd grown older, he'd learned to control the world around him with it. Far beyond the physical sensation of orgasm, or the emotional tension release, sex fed that feeling he derived from being in the center of the ring, with all eyes on him. He controlled his world and, in those moments, the world of any woman he touched.

There was no sense of intimacy or even so much as a fleeting thought to the purely physical pleasure as Rachel withdrew his cock and stroked him to fullness before sliding a condom over him. He was ready in seconds, and so was she. With one woman behind him and one on his lap, he smiled as his hands pulled the strings on both their tops. His hands moved to guide both women to where he had easy access to both. Pleasuring two women at once could be tricky - particularly when they were confined to a poolside chair.

Rachel eased down on him, and he kissed her deeply as his fingers slid inside of Diana. Both women moaned. Turning his head, his mouth closed over Diana's breast first, then her lips. He set the pace for all three of them - slow and steady and building. He could feel his body climb, responding exactly the way he knew it would as he focused his attention on the sounds they made. It was a well-rehearsed performance, and yet somehow unique with every woman he encountered. He heard their pleasure. He felt it. He prolonged it. Then, finally, with a deep sense of satisfaction and a deep groan, he came.

There were definitely worse ways Stockwell could think of to control him than the one he was _best_ trained to use to his own benefit.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

"Dr. Strausser was informed by the FBI that they had considered his case and turned it down due to an unacceptable risk factor."

Stockwell's briefing, and the folder in Hannibal's hand, was more complete than he'd expected it to be. He had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised. The potential threat of biochemical warfare was a worthy cause, and the file contained a great deal of information on both the man himself and the government sector that had him in their employment. Assuming that the information was accurate, it was more than he'd gotten from most of the Agency operations he'd done in the past.

"On my Franklin scale from one to ten, where does the risk factor line up?" Frankie asked, both curious and concerned.

"Next to the one," Carla answered with crystal clear, patronizing calm.

Frankie groaned. Hannibal smiled. "You see, if we bite it, the government isn't connected to a rescue attempt."

Murdock's smile was even bigger, and more fake. "Just makes you wanna go out and buy war bonds, doesn't it?"

"Any ideas how we're going to drop in on this friendly little hamlet of East Berlin?" Face asked.

Hannibal exchanged glances with him, but it was Stockwell who spoke. "I will leave that to your discretion."

"Discretion is good," Frankie approved. "I like discretion."

"Before we grow too enthusiastic about evaluating the possibilities," Hannibal said, eyes on Stockwell as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Just how much discretion are you giving us?"

"What do you mean?" Stockwell asked innocently.

"You've made it very clear that we're prisoners here, even if the prison is, shall we say, well stocked. It's going to be very difficult to get your hourly updates on us from behind the Iron Curtain. And it's going to be rather difficult for us to _get _behind the Iron Curtain if our resources are limited by what you will and won't allow."

Stockwell watched him for a moment, then gave a polite, professional smile. "Colonel Smith, your unorthodox strategies are, in large part, what drew me to you to begin with. I said before that I have no intention of trying to make you and your team fit into a standard protocol that I may hold for others. If you require my resources, I will see what I can do to accommodate you. But other than finances and, perhaps, transportation, I don't expect to be called upon for much. I do expect to be debriefed on your methods. However, I don't frankly care how you get into East Berlin."

Hannibal nodded thoughtfully. "You mentioned transportation. Just so that we're clear, what are you offering?"

"What do you require?"

"We already have a pilot. It would be helpful to have a plane, but we don't necessarily need that to come from you."

Stockwell hesitated for a long moment, on the spot and unsure of his answer. Hannibal had apparently caught him off guard with the unexpected challenge. From his place on the sofa, Murdock watched him with a calm, almost disinterested expression that his eyes did not match.

"I will arrange for a plane _and _pilot to take you into _West_ Berlin."

Hannibal shook his head. "No deal. We'll manage on our own." He turned away from Stockwell to address the team. "We move at fifteen-hundred-hours. Face, Murdock, get us a mid-range plane."

"Mid-range?" Face asked, curious.

"For now, yes. We're going to make a few pit stops before we head overseas."

*X*X*X*

** "**You want me to get what?" Face asked incredulously.

"You sound surprised, Lieutenant. How did you expect to put together a football team without equipment?"

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, Face kept stride with Hannibal, a few steps behind BA as they headed out of the subway station and up to the streets of Chicago.

"You're not actually serious about this game, are you? There's a reason they call it _American_ football. The rest of the world doesn't even know how to play."

"Oh, come on, Face. It'll be fun."

"Besides," Murdock interrupted with a smile. "You've got some experience coaching football!"

Face glared at him briefly. "That was a little bit different, Murdock."

He didn't need to explain all the ways in which it was different. Murdock's brilliant smile made it clear that he already knew.

"Hurry up!" BA ordered, not even looking over his shoulder as they followed behind him.

"What's his hurry?" Frankie asked.

"A little detour," Hannibal replied with a smile. "All in the line of duty."

Adel Baracus answered her front door with tears of joy, arms around her son as she stood in the doorway and wept. Finally, she pulled away and looked him up and down, then moved on to the others, hugging each of them in turn - even Frankie - before ushering them into her apartment.

"I hope you came hungry! I was just about to pull the roast out of the oven."

Still wiping her eyes, she led them to the dining room and stopped again to hug BA. With knowing smiles, Hannibal exchanged glances with his team. Frankie's was the only voice of dissent, and even he didn't sound too terribly concerned as he asked, "This doesn't like violate the agreement, right? That part about no contact with anyone outside the team?"

"Stockwell can't possibly expect us to complete these missions without some contact with the outside world," Hannibal justified.

"Stands to reason that our best resources are the ones we've known the longest," Face added.

"Yeah, and besides," Murdock said with a grin, "once you've tasted this woman's apple pie, the risk will all be worth it!"

It was amazing that one woman could cook so much food. All six of them ate until they were full, and it was still piled on the table. As Hannibal wandered down to the front porch steps to smoke, Face joined him, shrugging off his jacket and setting it on the step beside him as he lit his cigar.

"Feels good to be free," Hannibal said. He was full and content and smiling as he watched the neighborhood children jump rope on the sidewalk.

"Yeah, it does." Face lit his own cigar, and sat back against the brick, reclining comfortably. "Almost makes you forget what we're about to do."

Hannibal smiled. He hadn't forgotten. But the knowledge of what they were about to face somehow made this time that much more precious. He pulled from the cigar, letting the smoke roll in his mouth before he exhaled.

"Are you going to call Jessica?"

Face cast him a sideways glance, then looked away again.

"All things considered, you probably won't get a better opportunity. And I don't think Mrs. Baracus would mind."

Face's eyes lowered, but he didn't speak. He was weighing his words - the way he always did when he had a confession to make. It made Hannibal smile. Some things never changed. That look was the same as it had been when the kid was barely eighteen and, he would be willing to bet, the same as when he'd been eight. He was older now, and certainly wiser. But somewhere deep inside of him, there would always be that Catholic schoolboy who sought nothing so much as approval.

"Guilty conscience, Face?" he asked, amused.

Face gave him a mock glare. "Guilty? Of what?"

"You tell me."

Face buried that look under a smile, just the way Hannibal had known he would. The moment passed, and Face's eyes wandered over the buildings across the street.

"The equipment shouldn't be hard to get. I'll go tomorrow morning."

"I hope BA will actually be able to _find _his old high school football team."

"If he can't, it's going to make things very interesting."

"We're going to need a decoy of some kind," Hannibal mused thoughtfully. "I'm thinking Murdock."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

"Think Stockwell can work up some paperwork on him and feed it into the underground before we get there?"

"Depends on how much influence he has on the underground."

"In East Berlin? I suspect it's substantial."

"You are keeping in mind that none of us speak German, right?"

Hannibal smiled. "That just makes it a challenge."

Face sighed deeply. "Right."

Hannibal clapped a hand over his shoulder as he stood to his feet, putting his cigar out. "Cheer up, Face. If nothing else, we get an all expense paid vacation, Stockwell-free!"

He headed up the steps, but Face stopped him as he reached for the door. "Hey, Hannibal?"

"Yeah?"

"I've already called Jessica," he said. "And more than that, I brought her out to Virginia about a week ago."

"I know."

Startled, Face stared at him. "What do you mean, you know?"

Hannibal chuckled. "In almost twenty years, you've never been attached to any one particular woman before her. It's not that hard to figure out where you disappeared to that night."

Face frowned deeply at that. "I don't want Stockwell to know about her."

"I don't blame you."

"You should know, I'll say whatever I have to say to keep her safe. And I'll do whatever I have to do."

Hannibal let his smile fall, nodding his understanding. It wasn't an unqualified statement; there were some things Face would never do, and Hannibal knew those things. But it was as solemn a promise as Face could make, and Hannibal recognized that, too.

"For what it's worth, Lieutenant, you have my support."

Face gave him a tight smile, and returned the nod. "Thanks."

*X*X*X*

The trip to East Berlin, for what it was worth, had been smooth. But it didn't take long for the reality to set in that this was not like any other mission they had been on, whether in their military days or since then. Face was stressed. Not just a little stressed, but a lot. As Murdock watched him pace, back and forth in the dimly lit room, he found himself wishing for a glass of wine or maybe a bottle of vodka to offer him.

"Faceman, you're makin' me dizzy," he said, tossing aside another pair of boxers into the "reject" pile on the floor.

"This is nuts," Face muttered, not slowing. "This whole thing is nuts. Do you realize that while you were running the secret police in circles, I was standing in a darkened stairwell, with no power, posing as an electrician, telling jokes in a language I don't understand with a _biochemical weapon _in my toolbox!"

"Did the guy at least laugh?"

"Murdock!"

"What?" Murdock asked innocently.

"This isn't funny! What do you think is going to happen if we get caught here? Because I'm pretty sure that dying in front of that firing squad would've been preferable!"

Murdock sighed as he set aside the last pair of shorts. This job was boring. Almost as boring as the Twinkie factory had been. And it didn't even have the same great perks.

"There is a fine line between risky and outright suicidal," Face continued, trying in vain to keep his voice under control. "And everything we have done since setting foot on this soil has been the latter. Now, tomorrow, we have to play football with a team of... of..." He waved his hands as he trailed off, too overwhelmed to finish.

"Well, at least they've played football before," Murdock said. "They know how to play the game."

"Are you kidding me?" For some reason, that seemed to offer no comfort to Face whatsoever. "This is the team that Hannibal stood out there and said they were so good they could clobber any team that they faced. Now, what do you think is going to happen if they go out there, and they can't play? Hannibal is worried about blowing our cover if they don't go out, but I would rather make up _any _excuse rather than show up at that stadium where we're effectively trapped with a whole bunch of guys that don't need to know - and _can't _know! - about the real reason why we're here, and try to make everyone believe that we're really Billy Bob's football team!"

"It really has been a long time, hasn't it, Face?"

Face stopped, turned, and stared at him in frustrated confusion. "What?"

Murdock smiled. "I was just thinkin', I haven't heard you get yourself so worked up over an impossible mission since Vietnam. And then I got to thinkin' why that was. And it makes sense, you know? All the stuff we done since then, how many times have we _really _been in a situation where this much could go wrong and really just had to say, come hell or high water, this is the mission and we see it through to the end?"

Face stared. Murdock could see the gears turning in his head, and he gave him a moment to process. Murdock wasn't just speaking off the top of his head here. He'd recognized the moment he'd seen the look that came over Hannibal's eyes when he opened that folder during the debriefing that this was far more like Vietnam than anything else they'd been through together.

It wasn't just because they were working for The Man. It was because this mission - and, Murdock suspected, any one of them that would come later - was specifically designed for their unit. From the very beginning, Hannibal Smith's team had been assigned some of the craziest, most impossible and damn near incomprehensible assignments. And as if that hadn't been enough, Hannibal had always taken some of the most elaborate, adrenaline soaked paths from here to there.

"You really forget what it feels like to _really _put your life in Hannibal's hands, Face?" Murdock asked, tipping his head as he studied him curiously. "Or did you just suddenly turn afraid to die?"

Face stared for a moment more, then his shoulders sagged as he looked away. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, resigned. "It _has_ been a long time, hasn't it?"

Murdock smiled knowingly as he watched Face finally sit down on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. "If you really think about it, it's kind of a comforting thought. We've pulled bigger stunts than this. And you didn't always speak the language there, either. Like that time you guys accidentally set down right in the middle of a VC camp. And walked away with a smile because they thought you were Russians."

Face gave a tight laugh at that.

"We've done crazier things than this, Face. With the stakes just as high, if not higher. 'Cause yeah, you're right, firing squad might be preferable to death in an East German prison. But I'll take an East German prison over a Vietnamese one any day of the week."

Face looked up, and their eyes locked for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Everything that couldn't be said in words was said in that long, lingering look. Finally, Face nodded, then sighed as he stood to his feet.

"I need to get some sleep," he said quietly. "Tomorrow's going to be a very interesting day."

Murdock smiled. "I say we send Stockwell a postcard. Just to let him know how much we're enjoying our stay."

Face shook his head slightly, but didn't answer. Instead, he just smiled, and headed for the door much calmer than he had been just a few minutes before. "Good night, Murdock."

"Night, Faceman."

He didn't say another word as he headed out of the hotel room.


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Hannibal had barely walked in the door from the assignment to East Berlin when he locked eyes with Suzanne. And it was only a matter of a few short hours before she managed to corner him.

"Let's get a couple things straight Hannibal."

He smiled at the intrusion. Suzanne hadn't even knocked; she'd simply burst into his bedroom with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. No telling what had sparked said fire. Maybe it had just been kindling for the past week as she seethed over their conversation in the pool house.

Setting aside the suitcase he had no interest in unpacking at the moment, he looked up at her with a calm smile. "Nice to see you, too, Suzy."

"I didn't take this job to sleep with you. And if Stockwell was looking for someone to 'proposition' you, there are better choices out there than me."

"It's one thing to hire somebody to proposition me. Quite another to hire somebody with a history like yours and expect her _not _to."

His words were like gasoline on the flame in her eyes. She was practically shaking with anger as she stammered, trying to find a comeback. "You...! I...!"

"You know..." He stepped past her, closing the door for privacy before he continued. He knew his room was free of listening devices; he'd cleaned them out before even taking his shoes off. But there was no telling what might be out in the hallway. "I find it interesting that with all the assignments the CIA has to offer, you chose to leave them and find one that brings you within touching distance of the man you have been flirting with for years."

"Flirting! You...!"

"Yes, flirting."

He stepped closer, into her personal space, and she took a step back until she was against the wall.

"Let's call it what it is," he said plainly.

"I am not flirting with you!"

"We've been playing this game since 1981. You think I don't know the rules?"

"Since when have you played by _any _set of rules?"

He smiled. She had nowhere else to go as he came closer. Not that she was helpless. She had a gun, and a raised voice would bring any number of men to her aid. And besides, there was nothing even remotely like fear in her eyes.

"I have rules."

"Yeah? Like what?"

He was close enough to feel her breath. Eyes locked on hers, he spoke low and quiet. "I've never hurt you, for one."

"No. You haven't. But we've been down this road before and I know how it ends." She wasn't afraid. But there was nothing even remotely trusting in the way she looked glared at him. "And I will be _damned _if I let you screw up the biggest career move of my life."

"I told you. Stockwell has nothing to do with this."

The slightest flicker of fear in her eyes was his cue to press forward, gently touching his lips to hers. She froze for a moment, then turned her head away. Instantly, his hand rose to cup her chin, turning her back to him. She gasped in surprise, but didn't pull away as he held her still, nose to nose, eyes locked.

"Stockwell has nothing to do with this," he said again, slowly and clearly.

She paused, jaw clenching and releasing. "I won't let you humiliate me again, Smith."

It was hard for her to say that; he could tell. Very slowly, he released her chin and moved his hand up to her hair, brushing back the few locks that had fallen into her face.

"I've never humiliated you."

"Bullshit."

"I embarrassed you as much as I did anyone else who thought they'd parade me in front of their superiors -their prize catch. But I was very careful how much of your image I tarnished."

"Is that all that you think matters? The image?"

"It's what matters to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What do your superiors really know, Suzy? That I tied you up? That's a very practical way to handle a threat. Hell, you know that. You were the one who left me tied naked to a bed, if I remember correctly. Which is something I've distinctly never done to you. Not that I couldn't have."

Her eyes narrowed, jaw set. But she didn't argue.

"You're here to threaten me because you're afraid I'm going to make you look bad in front of Stockwell. And you're right; I could." He shook his head slightly, never taking his eyes off of hers. "But I don't want to."

"Why?" she managed. She was going for tough and self-assured, but she couldn't quite pull it off. "What changed?"

"You think it was ever about your boss? Your job? Embarrassing you?"

"You didn't have to tie me up. I wasn't a threat to you and you know it damn well."

"Exactly."

She glared at him silently.

He lowered his hand, watching her eyes as he traced the collar of her blazer, down towards her breasts. "So why are you here, Suzanne?"

"It's a good career move."

"No, it's not."

Her resolve was weakening. He could see it in the way the anger was draining from her eyes, the way her breathing hitched and her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

"I won't let you do this to me again."

"And I'm not going to force you. But know this, Suzy..." He brought his fingers under her chin, tipping her head just slightly, noting the way she didn't resist as his lips just barely brushed hers. "The next time I take your panties off, it's going to be very, very different. You have my word on that."

Her breathing hitched. He could feel it against his lips. Eyes locked on his, she was struggling to pull it under control. He knew she wanted him. She knew he knew. Nothing she said could convince him otherwise. But he'd known that for a long time.

"Why?" she gasped. "What makes this time any different?"

"Because you came here."

"What difference does that make?"

"It makes a difference."

"That's not an answer."

"I already gave you that answer. You followed me all the way here. You didn't have to; you chose to. That says a lot."

"So I want you," she admitted, her voice shaking as she glared at him. Such a fine line between love and hate... "You've known that for a long time. What's different now?"

"If you don't understand that now, you won't understand it when I explain it to you. And frankly, I'm not going to waste my breath."

She probably didn't understand it, he knew. How could she? She didn't understand what it was like to lead and be followed - the responsibility and the reward, the deep sense of loyalty that was built into that relationship. Maybe she hadn't been making a statement when she'd left the CIA - at least, not a conscious one. But the mere fact that she was here spoke volumes to him.

No matter what she said, this wasn't about her job or his orders or their reputations. This was him and her, one on one, winner takes all.

She bit her lip. He could see the confusion and the vulnerability in her eyes, so real it was almost tangible. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She didn't trust him. He couldn't blame her. On what basis could she trust him? But it _was _different now, and she would realize that soon enough.

Eyes locked on hers, he leaned forward just enough to brush her lips with his. He could taste her anticipation, her desire. Need. He could feel it in the way she was nearly trying so hard not to shake. But he noticed every one of those little shivers that ran through her as his fingers wandered, brushing lightly over her breast. He knew that look in her eyes - the thrill of danger and anticipation and not-quite-fear. It was more of a lover to him than any woman had ever been. Knowing it had a hold on her was... an unusual feeling. A contact high.

He slid his arm behind her, pulling her off of the wall and tighter against him as he moved his other hand into her hair. Tightening a fist, he pulled her head back slowly, exposing her throat and pressing his mouth against it firmly. She whimpered, hands moving to his sides. But she didn't push him away.

He pressed his tongue to her pulse point, feeling her heartbeat, tasting the salt of her skin. Slowly, he tipped her head forward again as he moved his lips closer to her ear. "Trust me," he whispered. With his fist still tight in her hair, he moved her head to the side, giving himself easy access to her jaw and the side of her neck. She didn't resist him. "I've never asked you for that. But I'm asking you now."

Her breathing came quicker, shallower. But she didn't pull away as the line of firm, wet kisses that began underneath her ear extended along her jaw and down the center of her throat.  
"You've always had everything in the world to think about except what feels good," he whispered, low and seductive in her ear. Her hands curled in his shirt, holding him tight as another soft whimper escaped her, desperate with need and desire. He could feel the blood stirring in his groin.

"Career, success, independence, reputation... You won't believe this, but I know what that feels like."

"You're right," she choked. "I don't believe that. You never gave a damn about what anyone thinks."

He chuckled quietly. "Oh, come on, Suzy. I didn't scale those ranks in eleven years by making time for guilty pleasures."

"What do you want from me, Hannibal?" Her voice was nothing more than a ragged, harsh whisper, mixed parts tension, frustration and want.

"You know what I want, Suzanne."

He moved her head, kissing the front of her neck, then the other side - every inch of her soft, smooth skin. He could feel her hands moving under his shirt, clinging and exploring. Desire stirred deep inside of him, fueled by the taste of her and the warmth of her body against his. Her body fit against his like two pieces of a puzzle - perfectly interlocking.

"And I know what you want."

Slowly, he withdrew, tipping her head down until their eyes locked.

"You know you need it. So you follow me around, waiting for me to take that game a step further. Knowing how good it's going to feel to scream shamelessly when I make you come."

He saw the shocked look in her eyes - at his words, or maybe just the way he'd said them - and smiled at the fire that slowly returned. She took a breath, but she barely had the first words of her protest out before his mouth was over hers, silencing her with a full, deep kiss. The arm behind her pulled her away from the wall and turned her, backing her towards the bed.

Her resistance was gone. Finally, suddenly, she realized he wasn't playing her. By the time they made it to the bed, they were both stripped from the waist up. He embraced her tightly, the heat from her body melding with his as he dropped his head to kiss her neck again, right where it met her shoulder.

"Damn it, Hannibal..."

It wasn't clear whether she was cursing him in anger or anticipation. Either way, it made him smile. Her hands were inside of his slacks now, and he groaned at the feeling of her small, warm hand around him. It had been far too long since he'd felt a woman touch him that way. It awakened something primal in him, and he was rock hard in seconds.

He turned her until her back was against his chest, facing the dresser instead of the bed. "Lean forward," he ordered softly, lips pressed to her ear.

Hannibal had always prided himself on control. His ability to remain unaffected in the face of anything life threw at him was largely what had kept him alive this long. But it was all he could do not to groan out loud at the sight of her submissive before him. She was beautiful when she was fighting and raging, but compliant and bent to his will, she was breathtaking.

"Don't move," he spoke slowly, running his hands up her thighs, exploring soft skin and tight muscle. He felt every inch of her skin, from the top of the lace stockings to her waistline, and finally hooked his fingers under her panties. Slowly, almost ritualistically, he drew them down - off her hips, past her thighs, down to her knees where he let them fall to her feet.

"Open." He nudged her foot with his. "Wide."

She complied, hands balling into tight fists, cursing him under her breath. The sound made him smile, and the smile remained as he pushed her skirt up to her waist, exposing her completely in a way he hadn't done before. The way his hands moved over her was new, too. Over the crease of her thigh, up to the small of her back, down again, all the way to the soft, fine hairs between her legs. His fingers slid into her easily. She was more than ready, her fluids running all the way down to his palm.

He cupped a hand over her, stroking one finger back and forth over her wet folds as he leaned in to whisper in her ear again. "Say it."

It took her a few gasps, a few times of working her jaw before she was actually able to make words form. "I want you."

He chuckled, low in his throat. "Now say it like you _mean _it, Suzy."

She growled, and it ended in a loud cry of frustration. "Damn it, Smith, fuck me!"

He was inside of her only a fraction of a second later. Her intake of breath was long and deep, as was the sigh that escaped him as he let his head fall back. She was so tight... She had to stretch to accommodate him.

He moved slow, gave them both a second to adjust to the pleasure. One hand stayed on her hip and the other moved up her back, stopping between her shoulder blades. He pressed down with that hand, just enough to remind her that she was trapped. He could feel her muscles relaxing, even as her fists clenched.

God, she felt incredible.

She made a high, weak, needful sound. Bent like this, and under his possessive hands, she couldn't move. She couldn't really even press back to meet him. All she could do was stand still, passively, and take it like a good girl. She pushed herself up on the balls of her feet, trying to change the angle, to pull him deeper. He shifted his grip on her right hip. She'd put herself in that position - now she'd stay that way. The grip on her shoulder held her, pinned her as he thrust hard, over and over until he'd established a rhythm.

Already, her breathing was evening out, low moans escaping her every time he pressed in - deep enough to touch her core. Buried inside of her to the hilt, the soft, distinctly feminine sounds that escaped her made his blood race.

"Please..."

He pushed himself up again, finding leverage, grinding his hips against her ass with every deep, forceful thrust. "Come for me, Suzanne," he growled as he felt her inner muscles twitch.

She tensed all at once, writhing, but there was nowhere for her to go. With a high whine, she clamped down tight around his cock, clawing at the dresser, nails scraping along the wood. That first squeeze of her already-tight channel was all he needed to feel. He felt it come up from the soles of his feet, travelling all the way to his groin as he drew in a deep breath, eyes closed, and dropped his head back. A low moan escaped him as he thrust into her, burying himself as deep as he could.

As his body slowly drained of tension and energy, he fell forward onto her back - careful not to crush her. He made no move to disengage, just rested his forehead between her shoulder blades, bracing himself on his arms. And for a long moment, only the sound of their breathing echoed in the stillness.


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

Face knew by the fact that Stockwell's lackeys had no interest in stopping him and Frankie from leaving the compound with the girls that they were still very much on Stockwell's payroll, even if they were technically on their own time. Still, the cabin in the mountains had proven enjoyable so far. There was no way to tell how much of this would be in her report, but he didn't really care. In the end, it didn't matter. He was tired, but he could feign interest in women even in his sleep. All he really needed to know was what side of the line they fell on - us or them. And since he had very little interest in acquiring a new woman as part of "us," that meant the only reason he had for playing along with any of this was to impress "them" - including Stockwell.

With that thought in mind and years of practice to lean on, Face slipped an arm around her waist as he walked with her down the path. "You know, it's funny to think that all of this is so... distant now."

"Distant?" she asked, curious.

"In LA, you can drive thirty minutes and have mountains, or a beach, or a desert, or a wilderness, or a city." He smiled at her. "I've lived there for so long, it's odd to think that we had to drive for hours just to get here, and it would be hours to get back to an ocean that's not even the same ocean."

"Hmm, yeah?"

He circled an arm around her waist. "Have you ever been to the west coast?"

"No."

"Ah, well, you should. It's definitely an experience everyone should have at least once."

"Is it really all that different?"

He chuckled. "SoCal plays by its own rules. No place like it on the planet."

"You seem to remember it very fondly."

"It's home. And it's beautiful in its own way." Letting his thoughts wander, they ended up fixating on something much warmer than his current surroundings. "Most of the beaches, all the way up the west coast, the wet sand goes on a long ways up the beach. Some of them, it doesn't. I had a beach house right by a beach that didn't have that kind of sand. But the sand dunes were about six feet high."

He paused at the steps of the cabin, glad for what he knew would be warmer temperatures inside. It was simply unnatural to go from summer sun by the pool to skiing in the mountains in a matter of hours. Given his choice, he would almost always prefer the pool.

"I like the ocean," she said quietly as she stopped beside him.

He leaned back on the post of the steps leading up to the door and drew her in closer. His smile was full of confidence and a seduction that he simply couldn't help. "So do I."

She turned, wiggling slightly away as she glanced up at the door. He raised a brow. Was that hesitance?

"Oceans may all seem alike," she said quietly, looking back at him. "But they are all _very_ different."

She was trying to be cryptic. Now that was just downright amusing. Not the response he was expecting, for sure. With renewed interest, he reached up and tucked her hair behind her cold ear. Okay, so maybe he was a little rusty. And confined in all of these cumbersome winter clothes, he was lacking a certain edge. But it had never even occurred to him that he couldn't have her wrapped up in his little fantasy world, panties on the floor, if he wanted to. He didn't want to; he had no interest in her sexually. But the challenge? He had _every _interest in that.

He said nothing, just watching her with a confident smile, waiting for her to make a move, or maybe a protest. She stood still, unsure of herself. Biting her lip, she frowned and closed her eyes. Ah, it was the war with self - wanting what she knew she shouldn't. He wanted what Stockwell's orders to her actually were. She was one of his operatives, not like the girls from the club that he'd paid to keep them amused. Was she more like Suzy - paid to keep them occupied and under control? One look at Stockwell's growing little harem made it obvious that he hadn't hired them for their professional talents alone.

"Should we... go inside?"

"Do you want to?"

"Yeah...I guess..."

"Why don't we just stay here a minute?" He stroked her hair back gently. It was an innocent touch, and yet it dripped all the warmth and seduction that was in his voice. "It's nice."

Beneath his touch, she relaxed. "I...I...um..."

He gave her his best smile as he touched his finger to her lips. "You're beautiful," he whispered, as if he were finishing her sentence."

She leaned in, studying his expression. "You say that to all the women."

"A gentleman always does." He smiled. "But I can't tell you how nice it is to be able to actually mean it."

His fingers traced her jaw, lightly down to her chin, drawing her in just slightly to see if she responded.

She drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, trying to remain calm beneath his touch. She didn't quite succeed. A quiver ran through her body. She was losing control. He was winning. Her voice was soft and pleading when she finally spoke.

"Kiss me."  
Success.

*X*X*X*

"It isn't right."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment, but she knew he'd heard. Relaxed beside her on the bed, his fingers lightly stroking her shoulder, he kept his eyes closed as he breathed slow and deep. "What isn't?"

"This is exactly what he wanted. He never had to say it. But I knew by the way he looked at me..."

She watched her fingers as they traced over the scars on his chest, memorizing them. A contented sigh escaped her as she drew in his scent. Every muscle in her body was relaxed, and she could feel the same in him.

"Is it so bad, Suzanne?" he whispered.

"Is what?"

"Being here, with me?"

She smiled faintly. "Being here with you is wonderful. The fact that he wins, solidifies everything he believes about me... That's not so much."

"Everything he believes," Hannibal repeated quietly. He sighed as he opened his eyes and tipped his head down to look at her. "What is it he believes?"

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. "I didn't just _leave _the CIA, Hannibal. I messed up. They put me behind a desk. When Stockwell approached me, it was very clear that this is my only hope of ever getting back into the field."

Hannibal watched her calmly. If he had any reaction to that, he didn't show it. Instead, his stroking fingers moved from her shoulder up to her hair, still just as gentle. "So he thinks what? That you're incompetent?"

"Among other things."

Hannibal smiled faintly. "He's wrong."

The surety in those words - as if he could simply speak that reality into being - was enough to make her smile back.

"Is that the official verdict? After proving his point in case at least a dozen times?"

He smiled back, but didn't answer.

She sighed as she pulled in closer, nuzzling him gently. "The fact that he thinks I'm incompetent isn't the worst of it. It's the fact that he hired me because he knew I'd end up in your bed. Another point which you've proven."

"And you find that insulting?"

"Immensely."

"Why?"

"Because I'm _good_, Hannibal, and I know it. I'm worth more than what's between my legs. And that is the only goddamn reason he offered me this job."

He was quiet for a long moment, fingers stroking through her hair and slowly down the side of her neck, over her shoulder, down her arm. "You're half right," he finally said.

"What do you mean?"

"He probably did have some idea that this would happen. When he burned you in ******, it was for a reason."

She sat up slightly. "What? What do you know about ****?"

He opened his eyes, looking up at her passively, still completely relaxed. "I've seen your file, Suzy. He didn't offer it; I took it. And what happened down there has his fingerprints all over it. He wanted you working for him because he knew you were his best chance of controlling me."

She stared at him, jaw dropped. _Stockwell_ had burned her? All of the hours she had spent trying to figure out what went wrong, that thought had never even occurred to her.

"The thing you have to remember, Agent Davids," Hannibal smiled at the name, "is the fact that he knew he couldn't use just any woman. That it was going to take more than a pretty face. That it was going to take you. Because I guarantee you, Suzy, you are the only woman in the world I would take this risk with."

Very slowly, her thoughts were coming back online. As she caught up with what he was saying, she shook her head, confused. "What risk?"

"We can try to keep this secret if you want, but it's only a matter of time before he finds out. This is his territory, and he guards it closely."

"He doesn't have to find out," she said firmly. "He might suspect it, but I'm completely confident that you'll find great amusement in foiling his attempts to confirm it."

Hannibal chuckled. "He won't get anything out of me. I can tell him to go jump in a lake and he won't fire me. But you, on the other hand, may have an uncomfortable conversation in your future. Because sooner or later, he's going to expect you to fulfill your purpose in being here."

Very slowly, she laid her head down on his chest again, listening to the sound of his slow, steady heartbeat. "Even if he does find out, I'm not sure what he could do with it. Other than an uncomfortable, awkward conversation. The man would have to be a total idiot to think he could actually get to you through a woman."

"He'll want information from you."

"He couldn't possibly expect you to be giving away usable information over pillow talk."

"Engaging in so-called pillow talk can be one of the most vulnerable acts of human existence."

She tipped her head to study him again. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, finally she pulled back just enough to find her balance and stroke her fingers lightly down the side of his face. "You can trust me," she swore.

"I know."

There was something about that odd little smile of his that made her warm inside. Moving up closer to him, she held her hand gently against the side of his face as she kissed him slowly, gently. Rubbing her nose against his, she smiled as she pulled his bottom lip gently between her teeth.

"For the record," she whispered, "I don't regret this. And I won't, no matter how it turns out."

He smiled back, hands running up and down her back slowly. "I'm glad to hear that, Suzy. I'm sure life around here will be much more interesting with you in it."

*X*X*X*

Face opened his eyes slowly to stare up at the ceiling, then at the fully clothed woman sleeping in his arms. It had been easy to turn the situation around until she was the one convincing him that it was better if they took things slow. It gave her a sense of control, to keep her from feeling threatened and overreacting, it kept a comfortable distance between them and, since they had established trust, he knew she would tell Stockwell that she was the one who'd put the brakes on and not him. She had her career to think about, after all. And he had absolutely no interest in sex tonight.

He extracted himself carefully from the sleeping figure and brushed her hair back gently as she stirred. She didn't wake up. Walking slowly and carefully through the dark, unfamiliar rooms, he headed for the living room with the enormous bay window, pausing at the bar to survey the selection. His eyes came to rest on the velvet, purple bag tied around the bottle of Crown Royale, and he smiled faintly. How fitting...

He grabbed a glass from under the bar, and poured the gold-colored liquor, leaving the bottle open on the bar as he raised the glass and inhaled the scent deeply. It brought with it a wash of memories, and the rich, sharp taste on his tongue brought back even more. He walked to the window, slipping one hand into his pocket as he stared outside.

That deep and unmistakable feeling of loneliness was burning a hole in his chest, reminding him why he had left this game behind. Sure, it was easy. And yes, it felt good. The power and the control, the physical release. But that wasn't really satisfying to him - not entirely, anyways. The gentle caress of a woman's touch, the warm intimacy of her kiss, the soft, silky feeling of her yielding body... those were the things that made him feel, way down deep inside of himself where these women weren't allowed to go. He didn't want them there. That was a vulnerable place - one he would certainly guard from Stockwell.

He turned away from the window, bare feet landing softly on the hardwood floor as he walked to the sofa and sat down. Leaning back on the arm, he took another slow, satisfying sip of whiskey and breathed deep. The clock on the wall read midnight. The phone was within his grasp.

He set the glass down as he took the time to disassemble the handset and check it for bugs. Nothing. Satisfied with that reassurance, he dialed collect, waiting for the voice on the other end to accept the charges from the operator. The sound of her voice immediately brought a smile to his face.

"Good evening, Jess."

"Face, how are you?" He could hear the smile in her voice, as well.

He sighed and took another drink, then set the glass back down, letting his hand rest comfortably on his knee. "I miss you," he admitted softly.

He'd never meant those words more than he meant them right now. Locked up in this prison, everything in him that was cold and unfeeling had risen to the surface. It wasn't just her that he missed. It was everything about him that was real and so emotional, he would never admit it outright. Everything she brought to the surface.

"Just tell me when and where," she said softly. "My bags are already packed, Face."

Those words burned in his chest like a hot poker. Suddenly, the urge to touch her was overwhelming. What difference did it make, in the end, if Stockwell knew about her? He already had Face - and the entire team - wrapped around his finger. Why even play this game with these women? Why did it matter? Why pretend to enjoy something he couldn't stand?

"Tomorrow evening." He didn't even realize he was speaking until he heard the desperate words in his own ears. "Come tomorrow evening. I'll have a car waiting for you at the airport with directions in the glove box."

"I'll be there."

He winced as soon as he realized what he'd just done. It was too soon after the last time, too great a risk. But something inside of him was dying a little more each time he smiled and didn't mean it. He was good at this game. He used to enjoy it immensely. But there was no enjoyment in it now. Instead, he was surrounded by the same used, cold feeling that had plagued him in Vegas, always hiding in the moments he least wanted it to surface.

"Talk to me, Jess," he whispered, realizing his fingers were stroking over the thick denim of his jeans. "Say anything at all. I just want to hear your voice."

"Oh, Face..."

That soft sympathy in her words was as close as she could come to putting her arms around him from a thousand miles away. Overly emotional - whether because of the stress from the last few days or simply that feeling of loneliness that was gnawing at his insides - he was glad for the shelter of the darkness as he moved his hand slowly to the inside of his thigh, still stroking slowly.


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

**3 months later**

Hannibal looked up as Face suddenly stopped right in front of the chair he was sitting in. He was holding out a slip of paper. On it was a phone number, and a room number: 205. Hannibal raised a brow. But this room was bugged, and he knew it. With a smile, he reached for the remote control, shut the TV off, and stood.

"Let's go for a walk, Lieutenant."

Face didn't seem to mind the idea. In fact, he led the way - out into the warm, late summer air outside. Hannibal slipped the piece of paper with Face's contact information into his pocket as he closed the door behind him and walked away from the house, into the open air, where there was no place to plant those damn bugs.

"Needing a break already, Face?"

"I just need a couple of hours."

"This is the third time this month, Lieutenant."

"I'm aware of that."

Hannibal glanced over at him. It took a few steps, but Face finally locked eyes with him. "If you keep this up, you're going to get caught."

Face forced a smile, but it wasn't convincing. "That's what I've got you for."

Hannibal sighed inwardly. Face hadn't been the same since they'd returned from their last mission, almost a week ago - where he'd met and buried his biological father in the same day. And not in that order. He'd taken it hard. And to the best of Hannibal's knowledge, he still hadn't talked about it - at all, to anyone. That being the case, Hannibal had to admit that he disapproved of this "excursion" far less than the last few times. Face needed it. Badly. Still...

"You're pushing your luck, Face. The more you see her, the harder it will be to keep Stockwell from finding out about her."

"I'm not going to let that happen." Face's expression was cold, deadly serious. "I'll send her back to LA with parting words before I let that happen."

Hannibal studied him, reading the deep sincerity and concern in his eyes. It was a distinct possibility that he would eventually have to do just that, and he knew it. He hadn't made the statement offhandedly.

"Face in love" was still a concept that Hannibal had some difficulty reckoning. Up until the incident with Decker and Fullbright, about three months ago, he hadn't even been sure such a thing was possible, and certainly not to the extent that he saw it now. Face didn't get attached to women. He certainly didn't get so attached that he held onto them even from the other side of the country. Whatever was so different about Jessica Summers, it had hit Face hard. And Hannibal saw it in moments like this. That heartsick look, the pained expression... Face was in love.

In spite of that, or maybe because of it, he wasn't taking his efforts to keep her a secret lightly. She was a part of his life that was locked down tight, even from the team. He went to great lengths to appear unattached in the eyes of everyone around him. It was a convincing show; Face acted, talked, and carried himself no differently than he always had. Aside from protecting her, it was a protective measure for the team. Anyone who did know about her was in a tricky position. If Stockwell ever found out, it would come down on both Face and Hannibal - whatever "it" would be. But at least it wouldn't fall on BA and Murdock. And Hannibal had to admit that he still didn't one hundred percent, completely trust Frankie. Not given the escapades that had landed them in this predicament to begin with.

"Hannibal, please," he said quietly. "I just need a couple of hours. I'll be back before dawn. You won't even know I'm gone. Just... just in case, right?"

After so many years with so little certainty, it was hardwired into him to keep in contact - to always make sure someone knew where he was. Otherwise, Hannibal suspected, he _wouldn't _even know he was gone. Finally, with some reluctance, Hannibal nodded. The relief on Face's expression was noticeable.

"Thank you."

"Lieutenant?" Face had turned away quickly, but halfway to the door, he stopped and looked back questioningly. Hannibal studied him for a moment. "Be careful."

*X*X*X*

Face held her hips as she rocked, slow and steady, on top of him. It had been over an hour since they'd fallen onto the bed - almost before basic greetings and definitely before other pleasantries. Everything they'd said since then had been without words. Kissing, touching, stroking... His abs ached and, for the first time he could remember, so did the muscles in his lower back. But at the same time, he knew he could do this for hours and not grow bored with it. And he would, if that was what she wanted.

She moaned softly as she leaned forward, hands on his chest as she lay over him.

He slid one arm up around her waist, leaving the other at her hip as he turned slowly, careful not to pull away from her wet heat. A moment later, he was looking down at her and she touched the side of his face, brushing a few stray hairs from his damp forehead. "Please," she whispered, her eyes dark.

His hands roamed over her as he picked up the pace, passionate kisses moving over her face, her neck, her shoulders. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, touch her everywhere. Every muscle in his midsection was burning as he thrust deeper, harder, listening to the sound of her quiet whimpers, his name on her lips. His _own _name - not just a name he'd given her as means to an end. She knew his name. And she knew _him. _

"Face..."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, her muscles clamping down around him as she arched up. Choking on a gasp of his own, he covered her lips with his, penetrating her mouth as he came with her. They moaned in unison - whimpers, gasps for breath in between the slow play of their tongues over each other. Relief flooded through him, and he gave a few final, deep thrusts into her body. Finally, he collapsed, exhausted, dragging in full breaths as he dropped his forehead against the side of her neck.

For a long moment, his mind was a complete blank, empty. As he slowly regained an awareness of his surroundings, he felt her hands still moving over him - soothing, stroking slowly up and down his back. They were gentle, satisfied motions of reassurance, caring. They were everything that felt good and right about being in her arms.

His weight was mostly on her. He knew he should try to move. But he didn't want to pull away. Not yet. This still felt too good.

"Am I hurting you?" he managed to tip his head so that his lips rested against her ear as he whispered.

"No." The completely relaxed tone and satisfied smile was proof of how good she felt, too.

Slowly, lazily, he trailed kisses from her ear down to the side of her neck, and finally pulled back to look down at her. "I love you." It still felt so strange to say that. Not that he'd never said it before, but to say it and _mean _it at a moment like this, when only the two of them existed in the world...

With a soft smile and gentle hands she reached out and stroked the side of his face. "I love you, too."

It also felt wonderfully strange to hear those words back and be completely unafraid.

Face found the strength to shift his weight and lay down beside her. He buried his face in her hair and pulled close to her - as close as he could get. It was several full minutes of silence, holding her close, before she raised a hand to push his hair back, out of his eyes.

"What's wrong, baby?"

He smiled faintly, sadly. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Yeah, Face it kinda is."

The smile and concern in her eyes made him kiss her shoulder lightly, reassuringly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just talk to me." When he didn't answer, she stroked his hair and whispered. "What happened?"

Dropping his eyes, Face let his lips rest against her warm, salty skin. "I don't want to talk about it."

There was a soft laugh from her. "Do you ever?"

The voice was so calm and sure that when combined with the hand in his hair, the effect was almost hypnotic. Without thought, he moved down and let his head rest on her chest. His eyes slid closed as he rested in the quiet exhaustion.

For a few moments of contented silence, she stroked his hair. It was probably the most relaxing thing he'd ever felt in his life. These moments with her were some of the most precious he'd ever felt.

"I could lay like this with you forever," he whispered softly.

"You'd get bored."

He chuckled.

"Besides, I'm lucky if I can get you to stay with me 'til morning." She had meant it as a tease, but his smile fell.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, hugging her closer. He meant it.

"It's okay." Her slow, gentle stroking didn't stop. "I know. I understand; I really do. I just don't like it."

He understood too. And he hated it. "I can't take the risk of Stockwell finding out about you."

She was quiet for a moment. "Do you really think he'd...?" He could almost hear the frown in her voice. "Should I worry about my safety?"

"I don't know," Face answered honestly. "I don't think so. It doesn't seem his style. But I wouldn't put anything past him. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him, and I'm not willing to risk you. Better to keep you entirely off his radar."

"I hate that you work for someone like that."

"I don't think about it," he replied quietly, almost mournfully. "I just do it. Same as if my CO was giving me orders I didn't agree with."

"You mean Hannibal?"

Face chuckled. "No, not Hannibal."

"Why not?" She was curious. "He was your CO, wasn't he?"

"He's different."

"You've never disagreed with his orders?" The skepticism in her voice almost had him laughing.

"Plenty of times."

"What makes him different?"

"Because I trust him."

He breathed deep, drawing in her scent. It was strangely - ironically - calming.

"You can trust him and still disagree with him."

"Mmm." Face considered for a moment. "I may not like his orders. In fact, sometimes he flat out pisses me off. But I trust him. I trust that his orders aren't to my detriment. And even if they were... I'd die for him without a second thought."

Her chest was rising and falling beneath him. "You amaze me, Face."

"Why?"

"The way that you love." Her fingertip traced the rim of his ear lightly. "You love with everything you are. The simple things, you struggle with. But you would die for your friends. Even if you won't tell them where you are tonight."

"I guess it's the soldier in me," he mumbled, carelessly.

"You mean the one you want to forget?"

He smiled, though he knew she couldn't see it. "Yeah. That one." He paused. "And Hannibal does know where I'm at."

"I thought it was a secret from everyone."

"It is. But I've needed his help to keep it that way."

Whether by the edge in his voice or some other non-verbal cue, she read between the lines. "That eats at you, doesn't it?" she whispered.

"I don't like lying to Murdock," he admitted quietly. "BA probably couldn't care less where I go or why. He's used to it. But it would make a difference to Murdock; I know it would."

"You could tell him. He wouldn't go to Stockwell."

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

Face paused for a beat. Saying out loud what worried him seemed to make it more real. "I'm more concerned about Stockwell coming to him. The last thing I need is to be stirring up trouble for him. He shouldn't even _be _here. That court martial didn't name him. At least when he was with us before, he was getting paid. Now he's out there risking his neck with us... and for what? I'm not going to do anything that might put him on Stockwell's list. No way in hell."

"Have you tried telling him that?"

"Telling him what?"

"The whole 'risking his neck' part? And about it being for nothing."

"We've never talked about it."

"Maybe you should." There was a pause as she kissed his forehead. "Find out how he feels about it."

"I know how he feels about it. And he knows how I feel. We're not going to find a common ground."

She chuckled.

"Don't get me wrong," he continued. "I can't imagine what it would be like if he'd stayed in LA. But at the same time... I hate to see him used like this."

"Like what? Like you?"

"Yeah. Like us."

"He's one of you. All or nothing, right?"

"Like I said, I know how he feels about it. I understand. I just don't like it."

"Hmm." She rubbed the back of Face's neck slowly, and he felt the muscles relax under her touch. "You know something I'm realizing about you?"

"What?"

"I think most of your communication is non-spoken."

"What do you mean?"

"You say you didn't talk to Murdock about it, but you _know_ how he feels. And vice versa. I see that with us, too. At least in some respects. The ones I understand."

He smiled faintly. "Nice, isn't it?"

She laughed again. It was a beautiful sound. She reached over to the night stand for her pack of cigarettes, snagging them and her lighter with outstretched finger tips. She didn't speak again until she had lit her smoke and taken a deep inhale.

"You don't like to talk, especially about things that bother you. But it takes knowing you to figure out when something does. Like lying to Murdock."

He flinched. He'd thought they managed to skip over that and sufficiently move on in the conversation so that it wouldn't come back up again.

"Face, you're pretty raw right now. Care to tell me why?"

He was quiet for a moment. "He found out something that..." He hesitated before continuing, slowly. "He lied to me. And he wasn't wrong in doing it. It's just..."

"Lied to you about what?" she asked when he didn't finish.

"I'm not going to talk about it, Jess. I can't." He nuzzled gently against her, an effort to communicate that it was really and truly nothing personal. "Ask me again in a few weeks and I'll tell you all about it. But right now..."

"Okay," she relented.

"I just wish that... I wish things had been different. It's still hard to think about."

"It's alright, baby. You don't have to tell me anything."

Face smiled, and concentrated for a moment on the slow stroking of her fingers over his shoulders, along his back. It was calming. Peaceful. He loved it.

"Are you satisfied?" she asked quietly.

"Mmm." He turned his head to plant a few light, closed kisses across the swell of her breast. "And exhausted."

She laughed quietly. "Does that mean you don't want to do it again?"

His eyes opened wide in surprise as he looked up at her face. "You're serious?"

Her smile was soft - not challenging, not teasing. She reached up one hand to stroke the side of his face. "I've missed you," she whispered.

Clearly. But they were going to have to come to some sort of compromise. He didn't think he could move, much less make love to her all over again. "How about I wake you up before I leave in the morning," he offered quietly.

Her soft smile remained in place as she nodded in agreement. "Okay."

He drew himself up, leaving one last "good night" kiss on her lips. Then he lay his head down on the pillow beside hers and quietly drifted off to a restful, peaceful sleep.


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

"Hey, Johnny, where's Face?"

Hannibal glanced up from the newspaper spread out on the kitchen table, startled by the question. "What?"

"Face," Frankie repeated. "You know. Good lookin' guy, blond, 'bout 5'11... You know. Face."

"He's not here?"

"Nah. Stockwell's watchdogs followed him outta here last night. Came back pissed as all hell at him. You didn't hear all that racket they made?"

"Guess I must have already been asleep." Hannibal was pretty sure he'd already been asleep.

"Yeah, well. Figured he was goin' out for a night on the town or somethin'. He's done that before, ya know?" He paused, but only for a beat. "But he ain't back yet." Suddenly, a frown crossed Frankie's lips. "Should we be worried?"

That was a good question. It was after nine. Face should've been home hours ago, before sunrise. Hannibal hadn't even thought to check his bed this morning. Or to be concerned when he didn't show up for breakfast. He'd had a late night, after all.

"Are you sure he's not still asleep?"

"He ain't there, Johnny," Frankie said firmly. "And wherever he is, he'd better show up pretty quick. Stockwell just pulled up. And he's got Murdock with him."

Hannibal frowned, and stood. "Find BA and give him a heads up," he ordered. "Then stall Stockwell for a few minutes. Don't tell him Face isn't here."

Frankie nodded in agreement.

Hannibal headed first to Face's room, to check for himself. The bed was made - no Face. Hannibal's frown deepened. _Damn it, kid, you know the phones in this house are bugged..._ As soon as he called the number Face had given him, Stockwell would know about it. Why the hell wasn't he back? He'd been so careful thus far. Now he seemed to be asking for trouble.

The first stirring of worry edged its way into Hannibal's mind. He ignored it, and headed back out of the room. He could hear Frankie already talking to Stockwell. Hannibal went the long way around, to avoid him, and stopped at the phone in the kitchen, fishing the phone number out of his pocket. He dialed quickly. _You're going to get caught this time. Nothing I can do about it._ They'd worry later about how to smooth this over. Until Hannibal knew what the hell was going on, he couldn't make any decisions one way or another. It wasn't like Face to not come home...

"Motel One," the operator greeted brightly.

"Room 205, please."

"One moment."

The call transferred. The phone rang. And rang. _Shit. Pick up..._ The concern grew. _He should've been home long ago._

Finally, he hung up, and redialed the front desk. "Motel One."

"Could you tell me if the person in 205 has checked out yet? He doesn't seem to be answering his phone."

A moment's pause, then the operator answered him. "No, it doesn't look like he has. But checkout isn't until eleven."

_Damn it._

"Okay, thank you."

He hung up the phone, and turned to look over his shoulder as Stockwell made his way into the living room. _Where are you, kid?_ And why the hell hadn't he thought to check and make sure he'd come home? Careless. He was getting comfortable and careless. Damn it.

Hannibal pulled his thoughts under control, grabbed a cigar out of the drawer in the kitchen, and headed out to face his adversary with a smile.

"Hi, Stockwell," he greeted brightly.

Stockwell did not smile. He had clearly already come to the realization that he was being stalled. As he gave a quick look around, he raised a brow. He only raised an eyebrow as he turned his head back and forth. After a moment, his eyes came to rest on Hannibal. "Where is Lieutenant Peck?"

Hannibal finished lighting his cigar before answering. "He went for a walk."

"A walk?" Stockwell repeated, clearly not amused.

"Uh huh." Hannibal crossed the few paces to the sofa and sat down, reclining with one foot up on his opposite knee. "He should be back shortly. We can sit here and stare at each other until he gets back, if you'd like. Or I can just fill him in later."

Murdock and BA were silent. Frankie seemed almost relieved by the explanation until he saw how _not _relieved the other two were. Stockwell merely regarded them all with calm disdain, and excused himself. No doubt he was going to find the agents who were supposed to be watching Face. They probably hadn't even told him about the previous night's escapades; Hannibal was pretty sure they didn't make a habit of telling him about any of the other times Face had ditched them. Face always came back on his own. No need to stir the pot.

As soon as Stockwell was out of earshot, Murdock's eyes locked on Hannibal like a magnet. "Colonel, where's Face?" His voice was full of worry.

Hannibal looked back at him. "I don't know," he admitted, sitting up straighter. "But if he's not here in the next fifteen minutes, we're going to go look for him."

"Why fifteen minutes?" Frankie asked.

"Because if he's on his way here, he'll be here within fifteen minutes." Otherwise, they'd have to figure out where the hell he was. That could get sticky with Stockwell hanging around.

"How long has he been gone?" Murdock asked.

Hannibal hesitated, waiting to see if he could get out of answering by letting Frankie do it instead. Santana took the bait. "I went lookin' for him when you guys pulled up. He wasn't here."

Murdock didn't bite. "Colonel?"

"Since last night," Hannibal answered. _Damn it, Face, you're digging your own grave here._

There was a reason why Face hadn't told them where he was going. Hannibal both understood and respected it. But he wasn't about to sit here and lie to his team, especially when by all counts, they did have reason to be concerned.

"Hannibal?"

He glanced at BA, noting the worry in his tone. BA shifted uneasily. "You don't think he took off, do you?" BA's frown deepened. "I mean... he _has _talked about it."

"He wouldn't do it like this," Hannibal said firmly. "He wouldn't just disappear."

The silence descended on them again. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal caught a glimpse of Carla, standing guard as Stockwell spoke to the two men who'd reported as soon as he called. She was out of earshot, but she was watching them.

"Hannibal, I gotta know..." Murdock paused for a long moment, and Hannibal glanced at him. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Whatever it is you're not tellin' us... does it make you more or _less _concerned than the rest of us?"

Hannibal studied him carefully. He wasn't about to argue, to deny what Murdock already knew. There was no point in lying to him, and he didn't want to do it. But at the same time, he didn't know how to answer the question. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes.

"He went out last night," Hannibal explained quietly. "To blow off some steam."

"Where'd he go, Hannibal?" BA demanded. "We all know he'd'a told you where he was goin'."

Nine minutes. "He went to a motel. He's not there now."

"Oooh, secret rendezvous?" Frankie smirked. The comment earned him murderous glares from all present, and he shrank back.

"Do we even know that he actually made it there okay?" Murdock asked, turning his attention back to Hannibal.

Hannibal didn't have a chance to answer before Stockwell stepped back into the room. "Gentlemen, it seems that Lieutenant Peck went for his 'walk' just before midnight last night."

Stockwell locked eyes with Hannibal. Whether it was instinct or experience, Stockwell knew he knew something. Hannibal didn't give him the satisfaction of a response of any sort.

"I don't suppose there's anything you'd like to tell me about where he might be?"

Hannibal smiled. "Your guess is as good as mine, Stockwell."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Murdock added, his eyes cold. "He prob'ly just needed to blow off some steam. I'm sure he'll be back."

"For now, I suppose I'll just have to take your word for it." Stockwell shot a threatening glare at Hannibal, once again ignoring Murdock. If he was expecting a flinch - or any reaction at all, for that matter, he was going to be terribly disappointed. "Luckily, the situation is not such that your assignment cannot be postponed for a short while. It will perhaps make things a little more difficult for you, but there isn't much I can do about that. I suggest you find your man, Colonel Smith, within the next twenty-four hours. Otherwise, all deals are off."

Hannibal's smile was still in place. "Fine," he nodded. "And uh, don't call us. We'll call you."

*X*X*X*

"His car here," BA said as he pulled into the motel parking lot.

Hannibal nodded. That was a bad sign, given that Face still wasn't answering the motel room phone. "Frankie, BA, see if you can get anything out of the front desk clerk," he ordered. "Murdock, you come with me."

As soon as the van was parked, they piled out. Wordlessly, they split up, and Murdock followed a few steps behind Hannibal, up the stairs and down the corridor to the room.

"How long's he been doin' this, Colonel?" Murdock asked quietly as Hannibal went to work on the lock.

"Doing what?"

"Sneakin' out like this." Hannibal didn't have to look at him to know the expression on his face. Hurt, confused... all the things that Face wouldn't have wanted him to be feeling.

"Since we got here."

"Why did he...?" Murdock trailed off, and sighed deeply, almost sadly. "Never mind. I know why he did it."

"The last thing he needs is to give Stockwell leverage to use against him."

"Yeah, I get that." Murdock paused and put his back to the door that Hannibal stopped at, glancing around as Hannibal went to work on the lock. "I just wish..." He shook his head. "I dunno."

"If it makes you feel any better, I know he felt bad having to lie about it."

"I know he would, and it doesn't make me feel better." There was an odd, sad smile on Murdock's face. "Besides, that's not what bothers me."

"What bothers you?"

The pilot's expression turned harder. "I just hate that Stockwell's got all this power in our personal lives. It's none of his damned business. And we gotta lie to each other about things 'cause otherwise he'll be stickin' his paws in and using it to hurt people who matter."

Hannibal smiled faintly, sadly, as the lock finally clicked open. "You've got my vote, Cap'n."

As the door swung open, Hannibal was immediately on guard. Something wasn't right. Murdock could feel it, and it made his hand gravitate instinctively toward the weapon tucked into the back of his pants. A quick glance at Hannibal reflected the same concern he felt. Guns drawn, they stepped into the room.

Signs of a struggle. They were everywhere: the TV was broken, pillows and blankets on the floor, a cracked chair, broken blinds. But the room was empty, and Hannibal replaced his weapon as he glanced around. The room smelled like sex and cigarettes. The alarm clock on the bedside table was still set for 4:30. It had probably rung for hours before shutting itself off. Cigarette butt on the floor - Camel - and a woman's purse. There were no other clothes, no suitcase, no trace.

Murdock opened the purse and quickly found the wallet inside. "Money's in here," he said. "Couple hundred."

"They weren't interested in it." Whoever "they" were.

"Don't look too professional," Murdock said. "They made a pretty big mess."

"Maybe, maybe not," Hannibal answered. It took some skill to a. find, b. startle, and c. subdue Face. Of course, with the girl as a pawn, they probably had him at a disadvantage.

The photo on the key chain in the purse made Murdock stop in his tracks. "Jessica Summers?"

Hannibal glanced at him. Startled and confused, Murdock looked from the kids in the baseball uniforms up to Hannibal and back again.

"Dr. Jessica Summers? Face's friend, from LA? With the two kids?"

"That would be the one."

Murdock's eyes widened slightly. "Man, I didn't know he was still seein' her! I mean, I knew but... I didn't _know_."

Hannibal raised a brow, leaving the question unspoken.

"I used to have lunch with her at the VA sometimes," Murdock answered. "She and Face been friends a long time but I figured he called it off when he came here."

"Why did you figure that?"

It took Murdock a moment to come up with an answer to that. When he did, he didn't speak it. It just came over his face like a cold shadow - a wave of anger. He had seen the same subtle changes in Face that Hannibal had seen in LA. He'd known it was more than just a casual fling. But Stockwell had turned all of their lives inside out. Those subtle changes were gone now, and Face was just the same unattached, pleasure-seeking conman he'd always been. The lengths he'd gone to - the lengths he'd had to go to - in order to give the impression that Jessica Summers and her kids had been meaningless victims of Stockwell's twisted power play were clearly more extreme than Murdock had realized. Face had lied to them all.

"I just can't imagine him ever wanting to bring her to a dive like this," Murdock said low, looking away.

"Well, I think practicality took over in the end."

Murdock shoved the keys back inside the black purse and held it tightly as he glanced around the room,

"So what do we do now, Colonel?"

Murdock was clearly looking to Hannibal for a plan. Hannibal was forming one quickly.

"Now we have to figure out who the hell would have the means and the motive to kidnap Face. Should be a pretty short list."

"Yeah, it better be _real _short," Murdock answered. "Cause we've only got twenty-four hours to go down it."


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

Face lay still and perfectly silent as consciousness slowly returned. Something was wrong. The floor beneath him was rock hard and freezing. Smooth. Cold. He felt like there was a stake being driven right through his skull, behind his left eye. Wincing, he moved fingers and toes. Everything worked. His jaw hurt. No loose teeth. No restraints around his limbs. He was lying on his stomach.

He opened his eyes slowly. Dim light. There was a gray-white wall in front of him. Concrete. Confused and disoriented - and distracted by the splitting headache - he closed his eyes again. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Listen. No speaking, no footsteps. No sound at all except... breathing. He stopped breathing. He wasn't alone. A soft moan. Feminine. His eyes snapped open. Jessica.

Face pushed himself up to his knees and found her, lying still on the floor a few feet in the other direction. His eyes didn't leave her even as he swayed a bit from the sudden movement. A quick look up and down her fully-clothed body revealed no overt injuries. Seeing her brought memories back, and with them, more confusion. A motel room. A flash of panic that had brought him out of a dead sleep in two seconds flat. He remembered reaching for the gun he'd set on the bedside table. It was the last thing he remembered with any sort of clarity.

"Jess?" he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.

She moaned softly, but didn't reply.

Without conscious effort, he was scanning the dimly lit room. It was an 8x10 cement box with no windows, no doors. Metal rungs were attached to one wall, leading up to some sort of entrance. Inside the room was only a bare, low wattage light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the unconscious woman beside him. He guessed they were underground. It looked like a fallout shelter, if he had to guess.

"Jessica, wake up." He left his fingers against the side of her face. "Come on, sweetheart."

As her eyes slowly opened, she gasped and pulled back from his hand, sitting up. "It's okay," he reassured her quickly. "Jessie, it's me. It's okay."

"Where am I?" Her eyes darting wildly around the room.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Finally, her gaze locked on him. "No, I... I'm okay," she determined, hesitantly.

Thank God.

She reached up, and he caught her hand as she touched his lower lip, right where it hurt. "You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," he reassured her, kissing the tips of her fingers. He'd taken stock of his injuries. They were minor.

"What happened?" her eyes stayed on him, like she didn't trust herself to look away. "I can't remember. How did we...?"

Sure that she was okay, he stood, turning his attention to his surroundings and looking them over more thoroughly.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Stupid questions."

"It's alright Jess." The room was clean. No dust, no markings on the walls. The bulb was old, hanging from a simple black wire. "It's not like there's an etiquette book on the dos and don'ts of being kidnapped."

She didn't answer. He moved to the ladder built into the wall. The iron rungs were solid and clean - no rust. He looked up as he paused underneath them. No latch, no mechanism whatsoever to open the door from the inside. He climbed a few rungs and ran his fingers over the cool metal. There had been a handle at one time. It had been melted off - probably with a butane torch. Face pushed on the hatch, but it didn't budge. Slowly, he climbed back down.

No video feed. He checked the walls, one at a time, but there were no cracks. No place to hide any listening devices except for the light, and there were none there. Given the position of the hatch and the temperature of the room, he was almost positive that they were underground. And whoever it was that had picked them up seemed extremely confident that they didn't need to keep an eye on them.

Face surveyed his own clothes, checking pockets, looking for tools. He'd been stripped of them. As he thought back, he didn't even remember _getting _dressed. He remembered the fight... the sound of Jessica's startled cry...The stomach churning feelings of fear and helplessness as a stranger held a gun to her head.

Jessica was chewing her lip, seated against the wall with her knees drawn up to her chest. He suddenly realized how closely her eyes were following his every move. How scared she was and how hard she was trying not to be.

"Is this the kind of thing you were worried about? If your employer ever found out about me?" She laughed a nervously. "Because I gotta admit, this is a bit more than what I had expected."

Face's jaw clenched at the idea that Stockwell might be somehow responsible for this. But as he considered it, the theory made no sense. Letting out the breath he suddenly realized he'd been holding, he started back towards her, shaking his head.

"This isn't Stockwell." He was sure of that. "There's nothing for him to gain by kidnapping me. He already has my services."

The tight hold Jess had on her knees loosened as he sat down beside her. When he put a protective, comforting arm around her, the response was almost immediate. She leaned into him, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her arms around his waist. Face pulled her as close as he could, and stared up at the hatch in the ceiling.

"So if not your boss, who'd you piss off?" she whispered.

Face let out a small laugh. "In the past week? Where do I start?"

Jess gave a forced smile - an attempt at returning humor. He loved her for trying, though he could see the fear in her eyes.

"I really don't know, Jess," he sighed. "It could be any number of people."

"That's not helping."

His eyes focused on the hatch again as he thought for a moment. "Stockwell never tells us everything. It could be someone we don't even _know _we crossed." He didn't want to scare her with worries of renegade government entities, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. "And on the other hand, it might be some two bit hood we sent up for drug smuggling months or even years ago."

Somehow that didn't sound as reassuring as he had hoped it would. He sighed as he reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. "It's going to be okay. I promise."

Her smile was a little more genuine this time. "I know."

She touched the side of his face, and he nuzzled gently against her hand, stroking her hair. One or the other - or both - seemed to comfort her, even if the demonstration only reminded him more of his concern. Why had they taken her, if they wanted him? Did they intend to use her against him? Did they know what he felt for her? God, he hoped not. Who the hell were they, anyways? His memories were so fuzzy...

Face looked back up at the hatch again. Until it opened, there was not a damn thing to be done. Whoever had them could keep them here as long as the wanted. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder about their air supply.

"Anyone you can think of who might've actually known how and where to find you?" Jessica asked, redirecting his attention. The uncertainty in her voice was clear. "'Cause I mean... We were careful, right?"

"This isn't your fault, Jess."

"Well, they might have followed one of us, right? You're too good to have been seen, and they had to know where we were somehow."

He didn't want to go down this road; there was no point. How he'd been found was irrelevant at this point. And even if she was the one who'd been followed, the fault was ultimately his. He'd set up every one of their meetings, knowing full well that she wouldn't realize if she was being tailed. He'd recognized the risk, and the responsibility. Ultimately, he'd put her in this position.

But placing blame really made no difference at this point. They would find out soon enough who had them and why, and probably how. In the meantime, he realized she wasn't going to stop pressing him until she had some kind of answer. He pulled a random possibility from memory, looking for something to put her mind at ease - at least as much at ease as it could get considering the situation.

"There was a cocaine smuggler a few years back. His pilot thought he was transporting turquoise but got nailed by the Columbian government. We got the guy who was responsible into Venezuela and had him arrested and extradited." Face cracked a genuine smile at the memory. His only experience with cocaine - pure, _uncut _cocaine - thanks to Murdock's convenient sneeze. He'd been higher than a kite for hours. "Could be them."

"Right."

He sighed as he realized she wasn't comforted. "Come on, Jess, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing." She sat up, pulling away from him as she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I know you don't have all the answers, I'm just..." She looked down at the floor. "I don't like just sitting here, not doing anything."

Face took her hands in his and tried his damndest to reassure her again. "Jess, there's nothing wecan do until someone opens that hatch, but that doesn't meaning nothingis being done."

"What do you mean?"

"Hannibal knows something is up. By now, he'll be searching for us."

"You think he'll find us? _We _don't even know where we are."

He sighed. "I just need you to stay calm."

"I am calm," she answered quietly.

"I need you to stay that way. I need you to be prepared, and rested when they come to get us."

"Shouldn't be too hard until we start running out of air."

So she'd considered that, too.

"We haven't yet."

"Face, you know there is no ventilation in here."

"Then we must not have been here for very long." He touched the side of her face. "I guarantee you they didn't kidnap us to bring us down here and have us suffocate."

"I know."

She met his eyes, looking for confidence. He had it ready.

"Hannibal _will _come. There's no doubt in my mind."

She nodded.

"Just don't be afraid. Okay?" He tipped her chin up and locked gazes with her. "Follow my lead, Jess. I'll get you out of this."

She smiled and reached up to touch his lips lightly. "I'm not afraid. I know you'll take care of me." She slid her hands back from his lips, along his jaw, cupping his face in her hands. "It's funny that you seem more worried than me."

_Conman extraordinaire my ass!_ What was he supposed to say to that? I'm not afraid for me, I'm afraid for you? I'm worried that you are going to be used as a pawn? I'm afraid that I'm going to have to kill someone in front of you? None of that would help, and it was all that he was thinking. He defaulted back to a smile.

"Jess, I've been in worse situations that this before. I have clothes, I'm not restrained, I'm not even hurt." He lowered her hands from his cheeks, holding her wrists gently. "But I don't know who is up there and I don't know what this is about. Play for worst case scenario and when Hannibal opens that hatch instead of some guy in a ski mask, at least we were prepared."

"I can do that," she promised.

"I know you're strong, Jess; I'm not doubting that. But you've got to understand that any weakness can be exploited. Right now, your weakness is that you're afraid - even though you're hiding it very well. And right now, my weakness is you. Do you understand?"

She took in a deep breath, and nodded again, then looked up at him. "They could've killed us at the motel, but they didn't. So they must want something, right?" There was no fear in her voice, only concern. She really was doing a damn fine job of hiding that fear.

"If they wanted us dead they would have done it already," he agreed. He hated using 'us' instead of 'me', but knew subtle mind games were pointless now. They were both trapped here, she knew it just as well as he did. "They might just want to hold us here until they turn me in for the reward." Face genuinely smiled at that. "It's been tried before."

Jessica blinked, stunned. "Is that reward still _valid_? I would've thought that when you were -"

The screeching sound of iron scraping iron cut her off, and she jumped. He firmly squeezed her hand before letting go. Suddenly, light flooded into the tiny room from the open hatch, blinding him. Broad daylight; what time was it? He shielded his eyes, willing them to adjust to the light quicker.

"You awake down there?" a rough, unfamiliar male voice called down.

Face hesitated only a second. "This isn't what I meant when I put in for a wakeup call."

"You," the voice ordered. "Get up here. The girl stays."

Face glanced at her as she bit her lip. He could read the fear in her eyes now, although she was trying hard to keep it under control. Being caught down here was scary enough. Being caught down here alone and separated from him was even more frightening.

"What if I say no?" Face asked, testing the waters.

"Then I come down and get you. An' I'll make sure and throw some tear gas down first."

Jessica swallowed hard before mouthing a barely audible, "Go, I'll be fine."

He waited a beat. He only heard one voice. Maybe they would just leave her alone. All things considered, it was probably a best case scenario that whatever they had in store for him didn't take place with her.

"Move! Now!"

Face didn't like obeying orders from an unseen and unknown enemy. But if he forced their hand, he knew exactly which way it would swing. He stood up, his eyes adjusted now, and took a step toward the hatch.

"Face..." Her quiet whisper made him pause, but he didn't look back at her. He hoped she understood why. "I love you."

God damn it. Of all the things for her to say. He closed his eyes, pulling his thoughts and emotions under control. Protective instinct and his own - first - flicker of real fear. He wanted to ignore her, pretend that it had never been said and that he could walk out and make whoever was up there believe she was just a floozy of the night. But those words seared him like a hot poker.

Looking back at her over his shoulder, he gave a genuine smile. He loved her and she knew it. She also knew that she was the only one who ever saw him smile like that. She had said just the night before that he wasn't a man of words, but of body language. And she was right. He let her replay words and emotions from another, safer time, and held her gaze for only a moment before he turned and grabbed the first rung of the ladder.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

"It was hard to miss the fact that Stockwell seemed entirely unconcerned about this whole thing," Hannibal said. "It would almost lead me to believe that he knows something we don't."

"Something like what?" Suzanne asked. "It's not like he has anything to gain by kidnapping Face."

"Oh, I don't know 'bout that," Murdock said. "The way that man's twisty little mind works, he could find something to gain out of just about anything."

"You talked to him this morning, Suzy," Hannibal continued. "What's your read on him."

"Wait, wait a minute," Frankie interrupted. "Why are we askin' her? Doesn't she work for the guy?"

"Don't you?" she snapped back.

Hannibal smiled. "She does have a point there, Frankie."

"Yeah, but that's different," Frankie said. "I mean, she reports to him about _us_. I mean, should we really be talking about Face around her?"

Suzanne stared at him for a long moment, then looked at Hannibal. "Where did you find this guy?"

"Alright, enough," Hannibal said. "If you two can't get along, I'll put you in separate corners. _Later_. Right now, we haven't got time for that."

"Suzanne's been around in a part of our lives a lot longer than Stockwell," Murdock offered to Frankie. "If anyone's gonna give us a good read on Stockwell's side of things, it's her."

"Unfortunately, I don't think I have a hell of a lot to offer," Suzanne said. "He's about as irritated as I'd expect him to be that his team lost track of Face last night. He has sent a handful of us out to look for him. But as far as his demeanor, it's businesslike as usual."

"A control freak like Stockwell would be at least ten shades of pissed off if he really believed that any member of this team pulled up stakes and left."

"And he may be." Suzanne shrugged. "He hides his reactions rather well, in my experience."

"Man, why we standin' here talkin'?" BA demanded. "We should be out lookin' got him! We gotta find Face!"

"Take it easy, BA," Hannibal said. "Until we know where to look, we're better off staying right by the phone. Face knows the drill, same as we all do."

"What if he can't get to no phone?"

"It could very well be that Stockwell figures he'll return on his own," Suzanna continued, ignoring BA. "He sent the men out to canvas, he's doing what he can..."

"No, that makes even less sense," Hannibal said. "That makes the whole thing a control issue. He'd be even more angry than if he thought Face was just being defiant."

"We should be out looking for him," BA said again.

Murdock's eyes shifted to the clock. It was almost one. They were all growing uncomfortable and stir crazy as the minutes ticked by to Stockwell's deadline.

"Colonel, what do you think happens if we don't find him in twenty-four hours?" he asked.

"Yeah," Frankie added. "He said all deals are off. What does that mean, exactly?"

"I don't know. But I'll tell you one thing. If we don't find him in twenty-four hours, we've got bigger problems than Stockwell."

"Right. So let's go find him."

Murdock sighed. "BA, we need a place to _look _before we can commence the finding. Or else we're just running around in circles like chickens with our heads cut off."

"One thing we know," Hannibal said, "is that whoever took him didn't kill him. That means they want him alive."

Suzanne sighed as she crossed her arms elegantly over her chest. "Taking Stockwell out of the picture, just for the sake of simplicity, who else would have any reason to want to kidnap Face?"

"Yeah, I mean... the Army ain't after you guys anymore, are they?" Frankie's tone was clearly worried.

Hannibal frowned at the thought. Stockwell had been pretty good about keeping the Army under wraps. How much they knew about the escape wasn't really clear. But in any case, they had ceased to be a daily consideration - at least for Hannibal.

"Even if the Army still had an ax to grind, this isn't their style," Hannibal said firmly. "They wouldn't take the girl who was with him."

"Part I don't get," Murdock said quietly, "is how they knew where to find him. I mean, _we _didn't even know. If we didn't know then you got to figureStockwell didn't know."

Hannibal had considered that, but he didn't have a satisfactory answer yet. He couldn't count anything outside the realm of possibility.

"If it was planned, Suzanne said, "how far in advance could anyone have known where he was going?"

"Face didn't keep a schedule for where and when he went," Hannibal said. "It was random. I never asked how they made contact, but I know he was careful about it. He always gave me the number to a different room in a different motel."

"How _they _made contact?" Frankie asked, catching the words. "You mean...? Was this the same girl over and over he was goin' to see?"

He and BA both looked to Hannibal expectantly. Murdock was already watching him out of the corner of his eye, but didn't turn his head, and he didn't say a word. "A friend of his," Hannibal explained. "From LA."

"So... theoretically," Frankie mused, "it could've been someone trailing _her_, too."

"That's unlikely. There are far more people who would have had an issue with Face than with Jessica."

"Jessica?" BA repeated. "You mean Jessica Summers? The girl with the kids?"

Hannibal nodded.

"What about her brother?" BA asked.

"Not impossible, but again, unlikely," Hannibal maintained.

"What's with her brother?" Frankie asked.

"He likes the ponies, but they don't like him." Murdock said offhandedly, as if the theory had already been considered and thrown out. "Hannibal, besides you and her, who else knew where to find him?"

"Anyone who saw him," Hannibal shrugged. "Possibly recognized him."

"Like the front desk?" Murdock suggested.

"That dude didn't know anything," BA said confidently.

"Yeah, and Face called himself Jeremy Something-or-another when he checked in," Frankie added.

"_Any_ of the motel staff or residents could've recognized him if they were looking for him," Hannibal reminded them. He'd thought about that when they were still at the motel. Unfortunately, most of them had been long gone by the time they'd arrived. Those who were still there knew nothing.

"Yeah, okay," Murdock granted. "But if someone there knew what they were looking for, that means somebody was looking for Face and had people there to recognize him. It takes a lot of manpower to stake out all the local motels and see which one he'd show up at, let alone _know_ he was going to local motels. Who would have both the resources and the reason to do that?"

"Stockwell," Frankie said automatically. The others all turned to him and stared. He held up his hands in defense. "Hey, we're all thinkin' it. I'm just sayin' it."

Hannibal considered that carefully, once again. He didn't like it. And it didn't entirely make sense. Why sabotage his own team? Of course, that had never seemed to bother him in the past.

"I don't put anything past Stockwell," Hannibal said firmly. "But even he would need a better motive than mere curiosity."

*X*X*X*

The unfamiliar man - 6'2, Hispanic, and well built - had led Face at gunpoint across a wide yard surrounded on all sides by trees. No effort was made to keep Face from looking around, and he committed everything to memory. There were no other residences visible. The house in front of him was dark brick and old wood siding, in a state of moderate disrepair. The grass was long, uncut. Flower beds were overgrown. Vacant. Secluded. That wasn't a good sign.

With a hand on his shoulder and a gun in his ribs, Face was shoved up the back steps and through the back door of the house. He paused as he stepped into a living room full of stale air and the scent of mothballs. There was dust over all the furniture - but someone had lived here comfortably at one point. From the style of the furniture, it had been at least a decade ago. No one lived here now; Face was sure of that.

The man shoved the barrel of the pistol between Face's shoulder blades, pushing him off balance. Face caught his footing and raised his hands to reinforce that he wasn't trying anything.

"Go sit over there and put your hands behind you," the man ordered roughly. Face looked in the direction of his gesture at the dining room chair set in the center of the room, clearly out of place.

Face considered it, and turned slightly toward his captor, considering it carefully. One guy. Face stood still for a moment, back rigid and jaw clenched. How much would it take to draw him in, get him close enough to disarm him?

Suddenly, the man smirked. "Don't even think about it," he warned. "You so much as move a muscle toward me and I'll blow you away right here and now. And then I'll go do your girlfriend." The guy cocked the gun, pointing it straight at Face's head.

Face swallowed, not happy with the revelation that he was disposable. And given that the man -who had a good fifty pounds and a few inches on him - would have to be disarmed before Face could even think of tangling with him, it probably wasn't a good idea. Face hid his concern under a smile as the man glared.

"Siddown. Now."

Face broke eye contact and moved towards the chair, hands still raised in a defenseless pose. "You talk to your boss about that plan?" he asked. "Or did you decide your hostage is disposable all by yourself?"

He put his hands behind his back as he sat down, and his feet flat on the floor. The man followed slowly, ignoring the question, and Face heard the jingle of handcuffs. "Cross your ankles and tuck them under the chair." And then with a sneer, "You know this drill, don't you, Lieutenant?"

Face's eyes narrowed and fixated on a point on the wall in front of him as he slowly crossed his ankles. Who the hell was this guy? Why make a comment like that? Face knew he didn't recognize him. Nothing about him was familiar. But he knew just how to send a chill down Face's spine.

"I know lots of drills." Face's voice was low and cold. "Some cadence too. You want to take the lead in the superman cadence?"

No answer. Cold metal clasped around his wrists, one at a time, hooking the chain into the back of the chair, on one of the posts. Face kept his eyes fixated on the wall until the man stepped in front of him. Then he locked gazes with him.

"You can try to get out of that," the man said. "You may even succeed. But I'm going right back out to that hatch. And I'm going to take a grenade with me. If I get word that you're not here when my boss - as you call him - comes to talk to you..." He smiled. "Well, it won't be pretty."

Fury. Face kept it under control, and said nothing although a part of him wanted to warn of the blood that would be spilled if he - or anyone - hurt Jessica in the least. Unfortunately, that would only give them more power, and the thought of them knowingly using her against him was more concerning than the thought of her caught in the crossfire.

Without another word, the man turned away and headed for the back door again. Face watched him go, glaring after him. These people were too confident - controlling him with threats. They already knew about her, he was sure of it. He could play the bluff card later, but it wasn't going to do him any good except buy him some time, and right now he didn't need time; he needed answers. Who the hell was responsible for this?

Face uncrossed his ankles and turned to look behind him. He studied everything in the living room and in the kitchen. There were no lights on, just open windows. It shadowed the rooms, made some areas hard to see. But he was sure he was alone.

He tested the cuffs. They were locked on tight. The chair was old, but it wasn't going to break without him putting some effort into it. He could do it, he was sure. But he would have to hobble across the room to the nearest wall to slam it into something and there would be no way to cover that up. Besides, where would he go from there? A brief flash of memory - the effects of a grenade thrown into an underground, cement room full of soldiers - and he discarded his escape plan before he'd even fully formed it.

He sat still, and closed his eyes as he breathed deeply, slowly, gathering his thoughts. He didn't know what to expect. Torture? Mind games? They knew just how to play the "uncertainty" card. He still had no idea who his captors were, much less what they wanted. Not knowing, and with only his empty surroundings and the sound of his own breathing to distract him, his mind conjured up one unpleasant possibility after another.

It was several long minutes before he suddenly felt eyes on him. He didn't turn. Instead, he looked to the mirror on the wall and scanned for whatever he could see. It took a minute for him to find the one thing out of place. In the shadowed hallway past the kitchen, a dark figure was watching him, saying nothing. Face couldn't see him clearly, and he chose not to react to his presence. Sooner or later, he'd speak. Face had learned long ago how to be patient.

"Sorry we had to do it like this, Lieutenant."

The voice, when it finally came, did not startle him. He frowned as he realized that it was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Even without the certainty of a name or face to go with it, he was pretty sure that they hadn't shared a cozy moment in the past. He didn't speak, and was careful not to appear caught off guard.

"I wanted to make sure you're not going to fly off the handle and kill me before you listen to what I have to say. Precaution, you know."

"If you're trying to get on my good side," Face answered calmly, "your execution needs a little work."

The man chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that." Face heard the footsteps, and looked up to the mirror again - but the man had stepped past the peripheral view. Face clenched his teeth, refusing to give the man anything that might be considered a break in his posture, in his stance. He simply stared at the wall and waited for him to come into view.

As he finally did, he spoke again. "But I'm sure you can understand why."

Finally, Face turned his head. And suddenly, he found himself staring directly at one Captain Josh Curtis - very much alive and well.


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

The anger was there in an instant, and it was volatile - even before the confusion set in. "Curtis," Face growled, arms straining on the cuffs. Instinct made him want to rip the bastard's throat out as memories of betrayal mixed and mingled with all the pent up anxiety of being dragged here and held prisoner like this.

Curtis gave a small, almost sad smile. "Hello, Lieutenant."

Face pulled his anger in, holding onto his control with the barest tips of his fingers. "You're supposed to be dead."

"So are you."

"Curtis, I swear to God..." Face's voice dripped venom. "Whatever this is about, you should know that I will kill you for _real _if you give me the chance."

Probably not the smartest thing to say, but Face was nearly blinded by anger. The only thing keeping him in his chair was Jessica, stuck in that cell alone. This man, and his lies, had started this entire nightmare with Stockwell. He deserved to die for that. He deserved to suffer unimaginable torture in the process.

"See, this," Curtis gestured, casually, "is why I had to go through the elaborate kidnapping and threatening and holding..." He trailed off as he sat down on the edge of the sofa, a few feet in front of Face, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "But I really just want to talk to you. I don't have any interest in hurting you or your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," Face spat. "I don't even know her last name."

"It's Summers," Curtis answered. "Jessica Summers."

Face's eyes narrowed. Next topic? He sure as hell didn't want to talk about Jessica.

"So start talking if that's what you brought me here for."

Curtis stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his eyes. "I understand why you're angry. I would be too. And I realize that you don't really want to listen to anything that I have to say."

Face had no interest in the apology round of this conversation. Curtis' understanding and empathy didn't change anything. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"We have a common interest, Peck." Curtis glanced up. "Hunt Stockwell."

Stockwell. Why did he have to say Stockwell? Things were complicated enough without Stockwell! Damn it... "Get to the point."

"Alright, the point." Curtis sat up, leaving the pleasant tone behind as he got down to business. "The point is that he double crossed me, and he used me. And I don't take kindly to that."

"Welcome to the club."

Face regarded Curtis with enforced calm and complete disdain. He recognized the tactics. Whatever Curtis was building up to, he wanted them to have a common ground against Stockwell. Fortunately for Curtis, it wasn't hard. The man screwed people over - used them jut like pawns on a chess board. They could probably fill the room with people who held a grudge against him.

Curtis sighed. "I'll be frank, Lieutenant. I don't like you."

No kidding.

"And I reallydon't like your Colonel Smith."

No love lost there, either.

"But I'm willing to overlook that for the opportunity to settle the score with Stockwell."

Great. That was exactly what they didn't need - to be caught in the middle of a crisscross match of vendettas. "What exactly do you want me to do?" Face demanded. "I don't work alone; you know that. You're propositioning the wrong guy."

Curtis shrugged. "Maybe. I realize that I'm propositioning the one who was most readily available. But I know that your decisions do hold some weight with Smith." He smiled knowingly. "And I'm told you can be pretty convincing."

Face was growing impatient with the banter. His experience had always been that captors were more than willing to tell him what he was going to do for them. He'd never had to coax an order out of one. "So what is it you want me to convince Hannibal of?"

Curtis studied him. It was a wary, untrusting look, debating. But at long length, he finally spoke. "I will help you escape."

"Escape?" Face challenged.

"From Stockwell. From the country. I'll get you money to start with, new identities, you'll be free to go wherever you want."

Face's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me?"

"I don't want anything in return. I just want you out of his employ."

Face felt his jaw open a bit wider. That was the last thing that he had expected to hear. And of course, the part that was almost comical about it was that Curtis seemed to think that he really had something to offer. How much did he know of the present deal with Stockwell? Didn't he realize that they could waltz out of Stockwell's "employ" at will if they wanted to do so?

Face's eyes narrowed as he considered his words carefully. "Look, Curtis. You are the reason that I stood in front of a firing squad and was executed, remember? Now you want to save us?"

Curtis stood, and paced a few steps away. "Believe me, I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I already told you, Peck, I don't like you. And yes, I would've been perfectly happy to see you face a firing squad." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. With a quick glance at Face, he tapped one out. "And that's just the truth."

"Nice to know."

Curtis paused for long enough to put the pack into his pocket again and find his lighter. "But I like Stockwell even less. And at the moment, you're the closest thing he's got to something precious." The flick of the lighter punctuated the end of his sentence.

"So Stockwell's used and burned you with something. I get that. He's doing the same with us. But if you want me to go back to Hannibal with 'Josh Curtis kidnapped me to tell me that he wants to help us out from under Stockwell's thumb', it's not going to fly." Face sat back in the chair slightly. Maybe it would ease Curtis into talking more. You double crossed us once. He's not going to forget that."

"I wouldn't expect him to."

"I need more details. Like what's the story with you and Stockwell?" Face could compare it to what he already knew and determine just how much of this was a lie. "What do you want with us? And how do you know that what you have to offer is better than what Stockwell is offering us?"

"Offhand, I don't." Curtis dragged deeply on his cigarette, and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. He did, indeed, sound more relaxed with even the small gesture of passivity from Face. "I don't know anything about your arrangement with Stockwell. But I know what kind of person he is."

"Do you?" _Keep it light, Face._

"I know he's got you by the balls, and I know you don't like it." Curtis paused. "I'll send you wherever you want to go. I'll get you new identities, but you'll understand if I'm not willing to finance you beyond that. As I've said, I don't particularly like you."

"Why?" Face demanded. It still didn't make sense. "You know as well as I do that if all you want is for Stockwell to _not _have our services, a bullet is a lot less expensive." It seemed like tempting fate. But at the same time, Face didn't think for a moment that the thought hadn't already crossed Curtis' mind.

Curtis smiled. "Consider this offer... an apology."

An _apology_? Face was more confused now than he had been when Curtis had first shown himself. Without speaking, Face broke eye contact, lowering his gaze away. Curtis seemed to be responding better to less aggression, and he posed no great threat at the moment.

"An apology for what?"

"You didn't kill Colonel Morrison."

"No kidding."

"I said I wouldn't have minded you facing a firing squad and I meant that. But I never intended for you to end up in Stockwell's employ."

"So you sold us out and now you're sorry." Curtis didn't need to know that his apology meant nothing. Face smirked. "I'm a Catholic schoolboy, Curtis. Forgiveness is my specialty."

Curtis chuckled. "In any case, the offer _is _genuine. I'll help you escape. The choice is yours."

"Why did you do it?" Face demanded. While they were talking, he might as well get that question answered.

"Money." Simple answer. "An easy way out of a mess that I was in."

"Bullshit. We heard the recordings from the conversations you had with Stockwell, before and during the trial. He never offered to help you with your gun running. In fact, you sounded an awful lot like you thought he _caused_ you problems."

Curtis stared back at him, jaw clenched. "Frankly, I'm not willing to discuss it with you, Lieutenant. You're right that you're not the one I need to be talking to. Now, you can either bring him to me with your willing cooperation or your dead body, one of the two."

Another flicker of anger. He knew just how to balance the friendly gestures with the threats. Face took a deep breath, maintaining his outward calm. "What, exactly, do you want?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Curtis took another deep drag on his cigarette and sat down again. "There's only one way that this is going to work. I'm going to talk to Colonel Smith, directly, much the same way that I'm talking to you right now. And you're going to make that happen."

"I'm what?" Face actually laughed. Give him two of them laced up in cuffs? He must be out of his mind to think Face would even consider it.

"The other option is that I can shoot you right now and wait until he comes looking for your body."

Face straightened.

"I do think he'd come, eventually. But I'd rather avoid the mess on the carpet."

Face kept his eyes locked with his captor's, burning hatred. "Why all the dramatics, Curtis?" he demanded. "You could've walked in here, put a gun to my head, told me what you wanted, and sent me on my way."

"I prefer to do this with professional courtesy."

"We're _not _coworkers."

"Not yet."

Face's eyes narrowed into slits. "What makes you so certain we'll agree to this? Even if I bring you Hannibal, he's not going to like this plan. I can tell you that right now."

"Whether you're dead or in another country, my real interest here is in Stockwell. I don't know that you'll be agreeable to my plans, but I imagine that you'll be less agreeable to the alternative."

"What alternative?"

"As I said, I could shoot you. Or you could play along until you have the opportunity to double cross me, at which point I'll shoot your girlfriend and _then _shoot you."

"I told you," Face growled. "She means nothing to me."

"I don't believe you," Curtis answered simply. "But you're welcome to keep saying that if it makes you feel any better. I'll only call your bluff if you give me reason to."

Face remained calm, although he felt anything but. He could feel the strain of the cuffs against his wrists. The irrational, furious part of him that he had never completely gained control of wanted to barrel into Curtis and beat the hell out of him. And then he'd go deal with the guy outside. The rational part of him realized that wasn't an option. Although he was pretty sure he could shoot from the back porch with Curtis' pistol and hit the guy right between the eyes, there had been two other men in that hotel room who were still unaccounted for. And he _was _handcuffed. And Curtis _was _armed. And Face was dispensable. If Curtis was telling the truth, he was only alive because the man somehow felt some small measure of guilt for the trial proceedings that he'd initiated. That part made little sense to Face, but he wasn't in a position to question it.

"I realize that you have no reason to trust me, Lieutenant." Curtis finished his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "And I certainly have no reason to trust you. I'll be keeping Jessica with me until this is over, just as a precaution. But I see no point in harming her as long as we're able to conduct ourselves professionally. Of course, I see no point in keeping her alive if we can't."

"So to be clear," Face said low, angrily, "all you want is an audience with Hannibal."

"With an open-minded Hannibal," Curtis specified.

Face shook his head. "I can't promise that."

"Then I can't promise this will end well for you. Any of you."

Face's jaw clenched.

Curtis sighed deeply. "I hope that all of you will eventually see things my way. Because you really have nothing to lose. And you have your freedom to gain. Once you're settled, I'll send Jessica back to LA and you'll be welcome to contact her and have her join you if you'd like. I don't really care what you do after you leave, just as long as you don't come back. So, see, it's a win-win situation for all of us."

Face had nothing to say. They knew about Jessica and really, that was all they needed. Damn it, how had he allowed himself to be caught in a mess like this? And now they were going to drag everyone he cared about into an even bigger mess. Curtis was doing a good job of not answering any of the important questions, and if Face was going to be used to set Hannibal up...

No. He wouldn't play that game. But if he refused, it wouldn't take long before they did use Jessica against him. They wouldn't kill her; Face was pretty sure of that. Once she was dead, Curtis had no leverage, no threat. But there were things worse than death that Face _didn't _want her to experience.

Who the hell was the good guy here, anyway? Curtis had sold them to executioners. Stockwell had all but led the firing squad personally. Face had no desire to help either one of them, and he knew Hannibal wouldn't either. There was no way in hell he could sell the colonel on the idea even if he wanted to - and he didn't. He wanted the whole story. He wanted to get Jessica out of here. The thought of her being trapped here while they did Curtis' bidding was making him blind with anger. And yet all he could do was sit here.

"Do we have a deal, Lieutenant?" Curtis finally asked, perfectly calm.

Face stared at him. He was holding all the cards and he knew it. There wasn't much that Face could even say. "Do I have a choice?"


	31. Chapter Thirty

**CHAPTER THIRTY**

The sudden ringing of the phone made every man in the room sit up straighter. Hannibal's hand was on it instantly, but he let it ring once more before answering. "Smith here."

"Colonel, it's me."

Hannibal could hear the tension in his lieutenant's voice. He kept his own voice calm, but it definitely matched.

"Where are you, Face? We were beginning to worry."

BA was on his feet instantly, watching and waiting and pressing one fist into the other hand. Sitting on the couch in a pose that was only slightly less anxious, Murdock and Frankie watched in silence.

"Nice to know I was missed." Still calm, still flat, still tense. But not rushed. "I was kidnapped."

"We got that when we took a look at your motel room."

Face hesitated. "You, uh... went to the motel room?"

"Yes, we did. And I gotta tell ya, Face. I hope your taste in women has not diminished as much as your taste in décor."

"Well, you can harass me about it to your heart's content _after _you come pick me up."

Hannibal frowned. It was too casual, too easy. But the tightness in Face's voice spoke volumes. "I'd be happy to. Do we need to bring the cavalry?"

"No."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"And the girl you were with last night? Since I'm assuming there was a woman involved in all this."

"She's just fine, Colonel."

Face was unharmed and out of danger. Jessica was not. If she was "just fine," she was anything but unharmed. That explained the tension.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Face was offering no other distress codes. Hannibal checked one more time, just to be sure. "Alright, Face, listen. You've got to understand how this looks. We've been sitting here worried about you all morning, and now you call and say everything's just fine."

"Everything is _not _just fine," Face answered with frustration in his voice. "I was kidnapped. Now are you going to come and get me or am I going to hitchhike home?"

There was no distress codes because he wasn't in distress. Reassured of that, Hannibal gave an inward sigh of relief. "Alright, Face. Where are you?"

*X*X*X*

Hannibal was the first one out of the van as they pulled to a stop at the city park. He scanned his surroundings carefully, out of habit - wary of being followed. Not that he thought they were; they'd lost the car holding Abel Whatever-his-number-was more than an hour ago. They were alone here, and safe. If not for the concern written all over the young lieutenant's face - and the fact that he _knew_ it wasn't over yet - Hannibal would've been happy to call it a job well done and get the story in Cliff notes.

Face was the picture of anxiety - fidgeting, running his hands through his hair, smoothing his shirt. Hannibal sat down at a table at the edge of the empty park - where he could watch the playground and the parking lot - and lit his cigar as he waited for the others to sit down. Nobody said a word until he finally started.

"Okay, Face. What happened?"

"Josh Curtis."

Face locked eyes with Hannibal. But Hannibal didn't react. The blank looks on BA and Murdock's face mirrored Hannibal's. "What about him?"

"Curtis is alive. He's the one that grabbed me at the hotel."

"What!" BA's response was immediate.

It took Hannibal a moment to get over the shock of those words. He shook his head to clear it as he found his voice. "The same Josh Curtis who was killed in a hit and run accident during the trial? _That_ Josh Curtis is alive?"

"Man, how many times does that guy gotta die before he stays dead?" Murdock asked in amazement.

"What in the world did he want with you?" Hannibal questioned, still stunned.

"He wants me to convince you to cooperate with him. And he has Jessica holed up as a motivator to keep us in line."

"Cooperate with what?" There were concerned looks on everyone's face, but only Hannibal spoke. "What does he want?"

"I don't know. He wasn't very forthcoming with his explanation." Face was sitting on the edge of the bench, his foot bouncing up and down. "I asked him a half dozen times and all he told me was he wants to get at Stockwell and somehow that means us going free."

Frankie perked at that. "Going free?"

Hannibal studied Face carefully. "Did he happen to mention what his beef _was_ with Stockwell?"

"I just assumed it had something to do with the fact that Stockwell left him to clean up his own mess after the trial. Which, I have to admit, is nicer than killing him. Which was the other option to consider for where he disappeared to, halfway through the trial."

"So, wait a minute," Frankie said. "How _did _he survive that?"

"I don't know. He wasn't in a very talkative mood. All he said was that he wants revenge on Stockwell, and that we are the most precious things Stockwell has. That's it. That's all."

Hannibal exchanged glances around the table. That didn't sit particularly well. Especially when the easiest way to get revenge is to _eliminate_ the things most precious to one's enemy.

"Face, he had to tell you something about what he intends to _do _with us. You said something about going free. What did he mean?"

Face was scatterbrained. Hannibal could tell it in the way he was recounting what he knew - or rather, what he _didn't _know. "He said he's willing to finance us to leave the country. We'd be on our own after that."

Hannibal laughed at the idea of running away from Stockwell. "And he was serious?"

Face let out a frustrated sigh. "Damn it, Hannibal, this isn't an elaborate joke!"

"Sure sounds like one."

Face stood and paced a few steps, then spun back around. Hannibal could hear the tension in his voice. The wild eyes and way he was pacing were a warning.

"He's got Jessica in an underground cell to keep me in line and I don't know anything about what he actually wants!"

"Face, calm down," Hannibal said gently.

Face's jaw clenched. "Calm _down_, Hannibal?" He leaned on the table. "You want to sit here and play twenty questions when I've got no answers and he's doing god-knows-what to her!"

"I heard you the first time, Lieutenant. Sit _down_." It was a tone he rarely used with Face anymore, and one that made Murdock and BA both sit up straighter. It wasn't a full command, but it certainly wasn't a suggestion, either. But the last thing he needed right now was Face flying off the handle.

Face glared back at Hannibal as he pushed himself off the table. "Colonel, I don't have anything more to tell you." His voice was still intent and punctuated, but the edge was gone. "All I know is where you're supposed to meet him."

"You expect us to believe that _you_ couldn't talk information out of somebody?" Frankie mocked.

Face spun. "_Fuck_ you!"

That was clearly not the response Frankie had been expecting. He put up his hands in surrender as his eyes widened to the size of saucers. Hannibal let the moment pass, and waited for Face's uncharacteristic aggression to subside. As he finally turned back to Hannibal, he sat down.

Hannibal gave the silence a moment more before he started again, exceedingly calm. "You were at the hotel. They came in while you were asleep, there was a struggle, and it ended when they used Jessica to get you under control. Am I right so far?" Maybe it would help to go through it one step at a time. Because he certainly wasn't getting anything out of Face as it stood. He knewthere was more to tell. He would just have to fish for it, since all that Face could see were the unanswered questions.

"Yes." Face covered his eyes with his hand.

"How many?"

"Two."

Hannibal coaxed him through the entire scene, one question at a time, until he had a clearer picture of it. It was almost an hour later when he finally reached the part where Face was driven to the park and dropped off. They hadn't even left an escort with him - someone to watch him. Jessica was enough of a guarantee that he would come back. At least, that Hannibal would come back, since he was the one that Curtis seemed most interested in talking to.

"Alright," Hannibal finally concluded. "So we don't know what he wants, and this whole thing could just be an elaborate trap to get us out in the open. Generally speaking, you don't send people you don't like and need to eliminate on a vacation."

He leaned forward on crossed arms and glanced around the table for reactions. Murdock had his chin in his palm, watching with a look that was clearly not amused. He caught Hannibal's eye, but didn't sit up. "I'm just tryin' to figure out how this guy's still alive," he said dryly. "We could've used his help in that trial, you know."

"Yeah," BA said. "Guy set us up. I say we find him. And make him pay."

Hannibal glanced back at Face. "Did he ever - at any time - make any of the usual 'come unarmed' threats? Or is he really expecting me to show up for a friendly chat?"

Face looked at the ground for a moment. "Hannibal, he has Jessica. That's all he needs and he knows it. He left it with 'I don't want to hurt anyone, but I will if you force my hand.'"

"Alright. Then you and I will go back and have a nice little chat with our friend, Captain Curtis. In the meantime." His gaze turned to BA, Murdock, and Frankie - each one specifically and deliberately. "I want _you _three there, and out of sight. If there's trees, there's places to hide. We'll keep him outside if we can. It goes without saying that I don't trust this guy but I'm interested in hearing what he has to say."

Without a word, Murdock, Frankie, and BA headed back to the van to check weapons, leaving Hannibal and Face at the table alone. Hannibal studied Face for a long moment, saying nothing. "We'll get her back, Face."

"You actually _mean _that?" Face glanced up and met Hannibal's gaze. "Or is it just the pre-battle pep talk?"

Hannibal smiled faintly. He hadn't bothered with one of those - at least not with any degree of seriousness - since the very first mission Face had joined him on - in Vietnam. "What do you think?"

"I think he better not have hurt her," Face said coldly.

Hannibal studied him for a moment. "If you can't do this, Face," he left off the implied "with a clear head", but it was obviously what he meant, "then you need to let me handle it. I need to know you're here, now. Or you're no good to me."

It was a way out, and Hannibal clearly _expected_ him to take it if he couldn't commit. This was too personal, and the closer to an objective, the harder it was to think clearly through it. It had happened to Hannibal before, too. And it would happen again. Sometimes it was just better to take a step back.

He could tell by the way Face looked away, deliberation in his eyes, that he was close to counting himself out. But after a long moment of silence, he took a deep breath, and let it out slow as he turned and looked Hannibal square in the eye. "Let's go have a chat with Curtis."

***X*X*X***

There was no car in the driveway of the run-down house. In fact, there were no obvious signs that anyone was there at all. Hannibal knew better. The place was crawling. They'd found five men with assault rifles around the perimeter of the clearing. The all clear from BA, Murdock, and Frankie had come just a few minutes ago. This was bound to get very interesting. Particularly when they didn't know what was inside the house.

Every muscle tense, Face was perched on the edge of his seat, concentrating on his breathing as they pulled the van to a stop in the long dirt driveway.

"The hatch is in the back yard," Face said, his voice quiet and measured. He scanned his surroundings carefully, and saw nothing.

"You guys see any movement inside?" Hannibal asked into the radio.

"That's a negative, Colonel, we are pretty in green."

Face exchanged glances with Hannibal, then looked back out up at the front door. The sound of the car arriving should have alerted Curtis. Where was he?

Face glanced towards the open back yard, and along the tree line. No guard. Surely they wouldn't have left her down there unguarded. Did he move her? It was hard to resist the urge to head straight for that hatch.

Finally, the front door opened. Josh Curtis stood in the frame, pistol in hand but pointed down at the floor as he stepped out to greet them. "No backup?" Hannibal mused quietly, watching him move to the top step of the porch.

"He may simply not feel like he needs it. He's the one holding the high card, remember?"

Hannibal didn't answer. "BA, what's your shot look like?"

"Good."

"Me too, Colonel," Murdock added into the radio. "Got 'im dead bang if he tries anything."

"Colonel Smith," the man called from the top step.

Hannibal glanced over at Face and smiled. "Shall we?"

"After you," Face answered. "You're the one he's dying to see."

Face hung back, scanning the surroundings as he stepped out of the car and walked with Hannibal toward the porch. "Captain Curtis," Hannibal finally greeted. "You're looking awful chipper for a dead man."

Curtis glanced curiously at the van. "Did you come alone? I would've expected to see all five of you."

Five. Not three or even four. He knew exactly how many people were on the team, at this point.

"The rest of the team is busy," Hannibal said simply. "You didn't exactly give us much time to send out invitations. And from what Face tells me, you know how demanding Stockwell is."

Curtis remained at the top of the steps, gun still in one hand as he put the other in his pocket. "I trust that your lieutenant has explained to you my offer."

"Bits and pieces. Unfortunately, what I've heard doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me."

"It's pretty simple, really. I'll help you escape, set you up somewhere that Stockwell will never find you, and you give me your word that you'll never come back. Easy as that."

Hannibal smiled. "Easy as that," he repeated.

"That's what I said."

Hannibal chuckled. "Curtis, you want our help with something, you better start from the beginning."


	32. Chapter Thirty One

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**

"What deal did you make with Stockwell?" Hannibal demanded. "How the hell did you get into this mess anyways?"

Curtis hesitated for a long moment, then finally answered. "I went to him," he finally answered. "Not the other way around. I knew that if you found out I was alive, you'd come looking for me. I offered to be the bait. To arrest you and bring you to justice on those treason counts."

"Which you knew were totally bogus," Face interjected.

Curtis glanced briefly at him, gave a quick "yes", then looked back to Hannibal.

"So far, your story lines up with what I already know," Hannibal said. "So keep talking."

"I told Stockwell everything I knew. He was interested in the murder charge. Pinning it on you."

"Technically, he brought the murder charge to _your _attention," Hannibal corrected. "I listened to the phone conversation. It wasn't hard to convince you that a murder rap suited both of your purposes better than treason. What I _don't _know is what your purpose was. What was in it for you, being the bait?"

Curtis' eyes darkened noticeably, a threatening glare across his face. "Call it unfinished business. Colonel."

He spat Hannibal's rank as if it were a curse word. Hannibal raised a brow, amused.

"So you have a beef with my team? Or is it just me?"

"That depends. Who was the one who went to General Westman and damn near ended my military career over something you had no authority over to begin with?"

Hannibal blinked, startled. Westman? Had he even known - ever met - Curtis during the war? The man was probably going to be angry as hell to find out that his accusations meant nothing to Hannibal. With a quick glance at Face - who appeared equally as confused - Hannibal finally shrugged.

"You care to be more specific?"

Curtis stared. "You really don't remember do you?"

"Can't say that I do."

Curtis' eyes narrowed into slits before he continued, low in his throat. "I used to be a pilot, Colonel. Before I got reassigned to my desk job with Morrison. I got there because you wanted an impossible extraction - one that could've killed my whole crew - and you were pissed off at me 'cause I wouldn't go in. You went straight to General Westman. You destroyed any chances of me ever getting another promotion, and you _almost _got me discharged."

Hannibal took a moment to think. A pilot who refused to pick them up. He only remembered one in particular - the one who had been the last straw before he'd decided they needed their own, designated pilot.

"The only pilot I remember ever refusing orders for an extraction was the one who almost got my entire team killed, pinned on the side of a mountain."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed at the thought that the man standing in front of him might be that pilot. He'd never had a chance to have it out with that man. It hadn't even occurred to him to think twice about where he'd ended up. When Westman had said he'd take care of it, Hannibal had left the matter in his hands. But now, remembering it, Hannibal's anger was rekindled. Face had almost _died _because of that man's failure to follow orders. If that man was Curtis - and by the look on his face, it was - Hannibal had even less interest in hearing him out.

"I had a man bleeding to death out of his femoral artery. You had orders not only from me but from your FAC. You were too damn scared to do your job; that was _your _problem, not mine. You ask any pilot worth their wings if they would have gone against my word that things were clear, and they will _all_ tell you that they take word from the man on the ground. And anyone who can't doesn't belong out there."

"It wasn't your call!"

"You're lucky all you got was reassigned."

Curtis glared. "That went on my record as a permanent black mark."

"Yeah?" Hannibal could feel the cold anger rising up in him as if it had just happened yesterday, but he kept his voice even. "You got off easy with a 'permanent black mark' and you have Westman to thank for that. I wanted a court martial."

Curtis' eyes flashed. "On what grounds?"

"The only man other than you who was able to get to us in time could only take the wounded. We stayed on the side of that mountain all night long and held them off. You almost got us all killed because of your failure to obey orders."

"Your team could've been killed because you were in Vietnam, Smith!"

Curtis was losing his cool. It was a memory that stirred anger in Hannibal, but apparently it stirred a lot more than that in Curtis. Hannibal could see his grip tightening around the pistol that was still pointed down at the ground.

"That's just the way things happen in a war - especially when you go out of your way to get them shot up in the hopes that you can take down a few enemy with you."

Hannibal didn't flinch, just let him continue.

"I heard about you, Smith; we all did. You couldn't even get a team to stick with you because you kept pulling such suicidal stunts. Don't you dare try to tell me that it would've been _my_ fault if one of those stunts had gotten your men killed! Or that I should've risked _my_ crew in _my _chopper for your stupidity."

"I had one of the highest success rate, and lowest fatality rates."

"You fucked up down there. It got out of hand. I did what any other pilot would've done in my position.

"You're wrong. You were the _only _pilot that ever left me stranded like that for no good reason."

"Alright, look," Face interrupted, glaring at Curtis. "As the one who was bleeding out of his femoral artery, if anyone should be upset about that whole ordeal, it's me. I am perfectly willing to let bygones be bygones and, to tell you the truth, I haven't even thought about that in fifteen years. So what the hell is the problem here?"

Curtis was furious. He'd turned that one event into a lifetime of bitterness and hate. Hannibal was amazed. How did people _do _that? Hannibal couldn't even fathom holding a grudge for that long. But Face's words only made him more angry, and his gaze flickered to the tree line, scanning as subtly as he could. It was a dead giveaway that he had reached the end of what he'd intended to say. Now they would get somewhere.

"If you're waiting for your men to cut us down, you should know that they've already been disabled."

Curtis moved. His hand rose, a gun fired twice, and before Hannibal even had a chance to realize the threat, Curtis was falling down the steps. Stunned and confused, it took a moment for Hannibal to put together what had just happened. It hadn't been Curtis' gun that fired. He'd just barely had time to cock it back before two bullets had hit the side of his head - temple and ear in perfect aim.

More gunshot. Hannibal and Face both hit the dirt as the windows of the house shattered. In the chaos, it was impossible to think. Hannibal resorted instead to instinct. Pistol in hand, he fired back almost blindly at the figures who'd appeared in the window. He couldn't put his head up long enough to get a shot.

Then the bullets stopped. Hannibal looked up, eyes immediately locked on Face. "They're running. Move!"

By the time they reached the back of the house, the men were almost to the tree line. There was no time to think. He could've dropped them like a stone, but those instincts had long been overridden by the decision not to kill, and he had no time to reconcile the two. He lowered his pistol as they disappeared into the trees and took a breath.

"Hannibal! What the hell happened!"

The voice behind him was out of breath. Murdock.

"Frankie, Murdock, sweep the house and make sure it's empty. Face go check the hatch. BA get those men you took out around the perimeter over to the van."

They all moved without a word. Hannibal scanned once more over his surroundings, then took another deep breath as he walked slowly back to the front of the house. Curtis was lying still. Hannibal didn't really have to check for a pulse, but he did anyways. Nothing. One shot, one kill; Face was still a soldier.

"All clear inside," Murdock reported. "Place is empty."

Frankie pulled up short, a few feet away, eyes widening at the sight of the blood. "Aw, man, wow. That, uh... That wasn't how this was supposed to turn out, was it?"

Hannibal was still trying to process what went wrong. It had been so fast, there was no time for thought. Face had fired on instinct, and judging by the fact that Curtis' pistol was cocked, his instinct had been right on. On edge and alert, he'd simply reacted. Hannibal still wasn't sure what had caused Curtis to panic, but it didn't matter now. Now they had a much bigger problem. Rather, they had several of them. Most importantly, the one person they were sure knew where to find Jessica was lying in a pool of his own blood.

*X*X*X*

"Face, you down there?"

Murdock wasn't about to crawl into a hole in the ground if Face _wasn't _down there. The long moment of silence made him wonder if he actually was. Then, finally, Face answered quietly and clearly.

"Yes."

With one more glance around, Murdock shouldered his rifle and headed down the metal rungs, into the underground, cement room. Face didn't look up as Murdock sat down beside him. Murdock didn't say a word, just leaned back against the wall, knees bent and hands folded loosely, and waited. Hannibal had told him to check on Face. He hadn't told him he needed to hurry.

"He drew down," Face finally whispered. "At least... I think he did."

"He did," Murdock said quietly. "The gun was cocked."

Murdock had to admit, it had shocked - and startled - the hell out of him to see Face blow Captain Curtis away at point blank range. He hadn't even realized that Face had gone for his gun before the shot rang out. It took a replay in slow motion to even realize _why _Face had shot him. From the moment Curtis had decided to raise that gun, he was dead within two seconds. How Face had known that there was no time to hesitate, Murdock wasn't sure. But he was glad for Face's instinct. There would've been no way to bring Hannibal back from the dead even if they shot Curtis after the fact.

"I couldn't... I didn't..."

Murdock didn't interrupt. He let Face work through his thoughts and form his words. He knew he would speak when he found them.

It took several long minutes before Face put his head back on the cement wall and breathed deep. "Damn, it's been a long time..."

He trailed off. But he didn't have to finish those thoughts out loud. Murdock knew exactly what he meant. It had been an unofficial rule, since they'd left Vietnam. Their shots went to tires and grills of cars, over the heads of their targets or into the dirt. At the very worst, a shot in the leg. Soldiers killed; they didn't. They'd left that life behind. It had been a different set of rules when they'd gone back to Cambodia a few months ago - a revisiting of the soldier that, like Vietnam, was pushed into those things they never talked about. This was not a soldier's response to an opposing army. Confronted with the kill he'd just made - the death of a "civilian" - Face was speechless.

"You okay?" Murdock asked quietly, cautiously.

Face breathed deep, in and out slowly, and nodded. He kept his eyes closed. "Yes."

Murdock hesitated for a moment. "You did the right thing, you know. And don't worry 'bout Jessica, we'll find her."

"I just killed the one person who could tell us where she is."

"There's a whole bunch of guys up there who might be able to tell us where she is."

"Might be," Face repeated.

"Face, you know we're gonna find her. That's not even a question."

Face sighed deeply, raising his hands over his eyes again. "It was just reflexes," he muttered, lost in thought. "I didn't aim, I didn't even think. I just knew he was going to shoot and then he was dead. I can't even tell you how I knew, I just..." Face shook his head. "It was reflexes."

Murdock frowned. "Yeah, and if your reflexes _hadn't _been that fast, Curtis would've put that bullet in the colonel's head."

Face growled, the first flicker of emotion. Murdock was relieved to hear it. "I _know _that!" Face snapped.

Murdock didn't rise to the fight.

"I'm sorry," Face managed after a long silence. "I'm not helping."

He sat forward, setting his hands in his lap. Murdock hesitated a few moments more before rising to his feet slowly. "Hannibal's probably waiting for us to come back before he questions the guys we took out in the woods. You want me to tell him you're coming?"

Face nodded, eyes still shut. "I'll be right behind you."

Murdock watched him for a long minute, then nodded as he turned away and slowly climbed, checking the area carefully before he pulled himself up and headed for the van.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

Hannibal waited for Face before he turned towards the van and the men who were sitting obediently on the ground beside it under BA's watchful eyes.

"Are either of the men from the motel room here?"

Face shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "No."

Hannibal lit a cigar as he approached the men and looked down at them. "So. Who wants to talk first?"

"Look, whatever you want, we don't have it," the largest of the three men said. "Josh kept all his operations on a need-to-know."

"Well, let's hope you needed to know what we're going to ask," Murdock responded.

"Where's the girl?" Hannibal demanded.

"Last I knew, they were putting her in a white van. Her hands were tied and she was blindfolded, but she wasn't hurt."

Hannibal watched the man for a long moment. That was entirely too easy. The guy was waiting for the next question, eager to cooperate. Of course, seeing his boss in a pool of blood probably had something to do with that.

"What else?" Hannibal demanded.

"Hey, I'm tryin' here, but it's not like he sat around and talked about his plans. Like I said, it was all need-to-know."

Hannibal turned his attention to the other two men, but they only nodded in agreement. He could tell, instantly, from the looks on their faces that they really didn't know anything. Years of conning and lying had taught him to read a liar effortlessly.

"Alright, BA. Throw them in the van. We'll drop them off at the police station on our way back to Stockwell."

"You sure that's wise, Colonel?" Face asked.

Hannibal looked back at him. True, these men had saw Face pull the trigger on Curtis. But their testimony to the police wouldn't go any further than Stockwell. The alternative, letting Stockwell handle it from the beginning, was far more dangerous. If they did that, he would surely find out about Jessica. And as it stood, they still had a chance that they could conceal her from him.

"Was there any way to monitor that holding cell?"

Face stared at him, confused. "What?"

"No," Murdock answered for him. "Why?"

"It was practical, simple, and he was very confident that you wouldn't be able to get out of it." Hannibal turned to them.

"I noticed," Face answered, frowning. "Where are you going with this?"

"He had time to plan. And to be confidentin his plan."

"Was shooting you part of his plan?" Face asked sarcastically. "Because if it was, he should've at least made sure I wasn't armed."

"I don't know," Hannibal answered. "I don't think so, but I don't think it matters. The point is, he had plenty of time to plan this. He knew he was going to take you _and _her, and he knew where he was going to put you. I suspect he also knew ahead of time where he was going to put her when he let you go."

"So?"

"So my best guess is that he's got another holding cell somewhere. Somewhere he's comfortable - confident that she won't get away. It'll be someplace he's familiar with. Someplace he knows and trusts."

"Great." Face rolled his eyes. "So all we need to do is figure out which of his local hangouts might have an underground holding cell."

"Holding cell _period_," Hannibal corrected. "Wouldn't necessarily have to be underground."

"Oh. Well. I guess I got a little carried away in trying to narrow it down."

"Still don't give us much, Colonel," Murdock sighed, ignoring the sarcasm. "We don't have a clue where to start looking. I mean, it's not like there's even gon' be a paper trail when this guy's supposed to be dead."

"Uh huh," Hannibal nodded. "And who do you think made him 'dead'? If you had to guess."

"Stockwell," they both answered automatically.

"We were assuming that Sule really did kill Curtis. But if Curtis was still alive, that means Sule was lying. We had him under the gun, so who was he more afraid of than us?"

"This whole thing reeks of Stockwell," Frankie agreed.

Face hesitated, unsure. "You think Stockwell might know where to find her?"

"I think he'd be able to give us a real good indication of where to start looking."

"Fine." Face stood. "Let's go talk to him."

"No," Hannibal said firmly. Face stared at him, surprised. "I'll go talk to him. You're staying here. Out of sight."

"What? Why?"

"Because Stockwell doesn't know yet that we found you. And the moment he discovers we have, he's going to ship us off on another mission to God-knows-where."

Face's eyes flashed. "The hell he will!"

"We realized you were missing when he came to the house to give us the details of our next assignment," Hannibal explained. "He gave us twenty-four hours to find you. That's it."

Face stared at him, struck. "Twenty-four hours from when?"

"From nine o'clock this morning."

Face shook his head slowly. "I'm not doing anything for Stockwell until I find her."

"We've got plenty of time," Hannibal said confidently. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, you and Murdock are going to stay here, and BA, Frankie and I are going to go have a little chat with Stockwell. We'll be back as soon as we can, and let you know what we find out."

*X*X*X*

Hannibal was standing beside the van as Stockwell pulled up in the driveway and slowly got out of the car. "You wanted to see me, Colonel? I trust you have good news."

Hannibal didn't speak, only gestured for him to follow around to the back of the van. He let Stockwell catch up before he opened the doors and in one smooth movement, heaved the corpse out onto the ground at Stockwell's feet. The man actually jumped back. As he stared at the heap of bloody, soiled sheets and the barely recognizable face of Captain Curtis - blown half away by a bullet on the left side - Hannibal lit the cigar he'd been holding between his teeth.

It took several long moments for the shocked general to find words. Hannibal had to admit he found it somewhat - sadistically - satisfying to see him caught so off guard. Finally, Stockwell clasped his hands behind him and looked to Hannibal for an explanation.

"What is this?"

"This is Captain Josh Curtis."

"Yes, I can see that." Stockwell was clearly not amused. "How did he die?"  
"Hit and run accident," Hannibal answered, around his cigar. "About six months ago. You remember, don't you, Stockwell? It was during the trial."

Caught in the lie, Stockwell merely smiled and lowered his gaze, no doubt planning the next one.

"We went and dug him up out of Arlington because a little bird told us that he was responsible for the disappearance of my lieutenant." Hannibal's voice had taken on a hard edge. "He's pretty well preserved, don't you think?"

"That's very funny, Colonel," Stockwell answered with a tight, forced smile. "What am I supposed to do with his body?"

"That's your problem," Hannibal said flatly. "My problem is that Face is still missing."

"Well, that is very unfortunate. Especially if your little bird was right - since I don't think you'll be getting much of an explanation out of him." Stockwell nodded to the corpse.

"Actually, I'm waiting to hear one from you. You have a bit more of a vested interest in keeping Face alive than he did."

"Indeed." Stockwell nodded. "Though he would have certainly had more to tell you."

"Oh, I suspect the story is _just _as interesting from your point of view."

"Interesting, perhaps. But it won't get you any closer to finding Lieutenant Peck."

"Well, since Captain Curtis is conveniently deceased - for the third time - I'm running out of ideas on where to look. Maybe you'd care to share some of yours."

Stockwell smiled knowingly, but didn't respond.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "Let me put this another way, Stockwell," he said flatly. "You've played me and my team from word one. I'd be interested in hearing how you did it except frankly, I don't care. I've got bigger problems right now. And so do you. Because I'm not going anywhere, on any mission, for any reason up to and including World War III, until and unless my lieutenant is brought back here alive."

Stockwell was quiet for a moment, considering that. "What is it you want, Colonel?" he finally asked. "I had no part in Peck's disappearance, I assure you."

"I wouldn't believe you," Hannibal shot, "except that same little bird that told me where to find Curtis' well-preserved body also told me about a deal you made with him. A deal that went bad, and pissed him off, and made him think that it might be a good idea to sabotage your efforts at world peace by getting rid of _us_."

Stockwell smiled again, and licked his lips. "Again, Colonel, what is it you want?"

"I want everything you've got on Curtis," Hannibal demanded, his voice low and threatening. "Every goddamn thing. And just so you know, if your story doesn't match up perfectly with what that little bird told me, I'll still find my lieutenant. And when I do, we will be so far gone from here I _promise _you, you'll never find us. And you can shove your fucking pardons right up your ass."

*X*X*X*

They'd searched the house, top to bottom, for anything that might give them a clue as to Jessica's whereabouts. It was sterile. Several of the rooms had probably not even been entered in years, given the layer of dust over the furniture. Still, they checked every one in search of an address, a phone number, a name, _something_. But there was nothing to find. If Curtis had used the house at all before this very day, he'd been careful to leave no trace behind.

Finally, Face collapsed onto the sofa, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

"You know, Face, you look beat."

Face didn't look up, cradling his head in his hands.

"We prob'ly got an hour or two before Hannibal comes back," Murdock tried again when he received no response. "Why don't you go rest your eyes a while?"

At that, Face looked up. "Are you kidding?"

Murdock smiled. "We're gonna find her, Face. And I'm betting you didn't sleep too much last night."

Face sighed, stood again, paced a few times, and sat back down. "I can't believe here I was so worried about Stockwell, and it turns out he's the least of our concerns."

Murdock frowned. "Uh, let's not forget. Stockwell _started _all this."

"Yeah, and he'll finish it, too. It's only a matter of time before we get in over our heads. And God help anyone who gets caught in the crossfire when we go down in flames. Whether Stockwell kills us or someone else does..."

Murdock studied him carefully, letting the silence continue for a long moment before speaking. "You know, Face, all said and done, I spent almost as many years taking orders from guys I didn't trust as I've spent with Hannibal. Way I see it, Stockwell's just one more REMF lookin' to get me killed. He's not anything all that special. Just thinks he is."

Face frowned as his gaze raked Murdock slowly, carefully. "So why do you do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"In Vietnam, you signed on the dotted line and you were done for. No more decision making, no more thoughts of your own. But you don't have to be here."

Murdock laughed. "Are you kidding me?" But a quick glance at Face's expression told him that Face wasn't kidding. Murdock's smile fell, and he looked away.

"Did Hannibal ever tell you 'bout... what happened when I left 'Nam?"

"No," Face answered simply. "We parted ways in Honolulu when he went to find you. He wanted to go alone. Wouldn't talk about it when he came back."

Murdock took a deep breath, and let it out slow. "I was livin' in a hotel," he started quietly. "Blowin' through the rest of my TDY pay. I was never sober. My grandparents had died while I was overseas. Alan died at A Shau. I had nothing. No one." He paused, shifting uncomfortably as he lowered his eyes to the floor. "You know how hard it is when you're tryin' to figure out who you are now that you're a different person, and there's no one there who can even tell you what you're supposed to look like?"

Face studied him carefully, silently. Then, finally, he nodded. "Yeah," he answered solemnly. "I do."

"When Hannibal showed up at my door I was mad. I was furious." Murdock smiled tightly, and shook his head. "I dunno why I took it out on him. I guess somewhere along the line, he just got to representing everything bad in my life, everything that went wrong. The whole goddamn war. And he's sitting there asking me to come back. And I just... I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe he had the nerve. I'm sitting there thinkin', 'don't you know what I've been through? Don't you know what this has already cost me?' Damn, I was so mad at him..."

Face remained quiet, listening, sitting back against the sofa as Murdock rose to his feet and paced a few steps, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. "And then he left, and I'm sitting there in this restaurant. And all these people are staring. 'Cause he came there, heh..." Murdock shook his head. "He came there in full uniform. Class As. Called me a captain. And everybody was staring. And I realized then that there was no way. There was no way I was ever going to fit in. There was no way I was ever gon' go back to how and what I used to be. Those people were always gon' be starin. 'Cause there was always gon' be something different about me."

Murdock paused at the window and stared out at the empty driveway with unseeing eyes, lost in his thoughts. "There was always gon' be something," he said quietly. "Something that remembered what it was like to watch people - women, children... watch them burn to death, runnin' out of a village. Or..." He trailed off before he formed words. He didn't want to speak about it. He didn't want to remember it. Too many years with too many shrinks had made the words less powerful, but they still cut him. He shook his head as he considered it. "Hell, I hadn't even seen half of it. Not yet."

He took a breath, and shook his head to clear it. "Anyway, um... I left. The restaurant, I mean." He glanced back at Face and saw him still listening intently, his brow creased at the direction Murdock was heading with this conversation. "I had two hundred dollars left. All the money I had in the world. And I used it to buy a Colt .45 and a bottle of vodka. And I sat down on the floor in my hotel room and I drank that whole bottle."

Face straightened, his frown deepening as he realized where this was going. Murdock looked away again. "It made me... not as mad. Drinking does that to me; you know that. I'm not an angry drunk. Not usually. It just makes me think and... and it makes me sad. So I started thinking. About stuff he said. And I... I was thinking, one of the things..."

Murdock turned fully toward Face, looking him straight in the eye. "He said 'I came eight thousand miles to find you. And if I found you happy, I'da turned around and gone back. But I didn't. And now I'm sittin' here, came eight thousand miles to find you, and can you think of anyone else in your life who'd care that much about you?'"

In the long pause that followed, he thought he almost saw Face smile. "I realized something, Face," he finally continued, quietly. "You know, my mom died when I was young. And my dad never cared too much for me. My grandparents raised me. I know you know all that." He sighed as he looked away. "And my grandparents... They did it 'cause I didn't have nowhere to go. They did it 'cause they didn't have much of a choice. Other than to..." Murdock paused, realizing it was tactless to mention the option of dumping him off in an orphanage.

Face probably heard it anyway; he wasn't stupid. But there was no reason to bring it out.

"And Alan," Murdock laughed, without humor, "I never could figure him out. Even back then. To this day, I don't know what the hell I ever did to him, other than just bein' born."

He stopped as he realized he'd wandered off topic, and shook his head. "Anyways, I was sitting there on that floor and thinking... you know, he's right." He turned back to Face, staring him straight in the eye. "Nobody in my whole _life _would've come eight thousand miles to find me. To tell me to come home. And Vietnam was one hell of a shitty home, but it was where my family was." He shook his head slowly, his voice low and cold as he finished. "And Stockwell ain't got nothin' on Vietnam."


	34. Chapter Thirty Three

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE**

Hannibal didn't like talking to Stockwell without his team around. It had never bothered him before, with any other CO - if he could call Stockwell that. In fact, most of the briefings he'd received in Vietnam had come to him alone, and through him to the rest of the team. But Stockwell was different from any of them - even the ones who sent them on suicide missions and didn't care if they lived or died. Stockwell was different because every single conversation they had bordered on psychological warfare, and Hannibal didn't want to give him any more ammunition than he already had.

Not that Hannibal felt threatened; he didn't. He was more concerned about the effect that the segregation had on Stockwell, and his perceived power. If Stockwell didn't know by now that anything he said to Hannibal would be relayed to the team, he was an idiot. Hannibal took him for a lot of things, but "stupid" was not one of them. The problem was in the impression it gave - that Hannibal was a go-between, and the only one Stockwell had to listen (or answer) to.

The days of that go-between role - where he alone answered for and to his team - had been left behind in Vietnam, if they had ever really existed at all. Even in 'Nam - where orders where not optionally obeyed - every CO who'd ever given them one knew that his team had more say in how they conducted themselves in the execution of those orders than most. They were not pawns; they never had been. Stockwell, no doubt, would have probably rather they were. Any excuse to frame them in that light was not only enjoyed, but exploited.

But psychological warfare went both ways. Ever the strategist, Hannibal had both mastered and learned to manipulate the rules of engagement long before he'd ever met Stockwell. It was a board game like any other, and he was good at it. It was a very good gauge of how comfortable Stockwell was in a situation by how uncomfortable he, himself was. Hannibal would back down from the constant power struggle for now, let him be comfortable and confident.

Stockwell had something he wanted.

"I'm afraid, as I said, there's not much I can tell you. Captain Curtis has not been in my employ for some time now."

"But he _was_, at one point."

Stockwell paused, debating his response. Then he smiled. "I think it's safe to say we both know the answer to that question, Colonel. Otherwise, you would be out looking for Lieutenant Peck instead of sitting here talking to me."

Stockwell turned his attention to the phone, and Hannibal watched silently as he dialed. He waited. "Carla, please send me everything we have on Captain Josh Curtis. Thank you. And bring me a hard copy as soon as you can."

No way of knowing their duress codes, but Hannibal wasn't stupid enough to think they didn't have them. The order was simple, but there was a good chance that at least part of it was unspoken. As he hung up the phone, Stockwell reclined comfortably, one foot up on his other knee.

"So how _did _you manage to come across the deceased Captain Curtis, if you don't mind me asking?"

He was fishing. How much did Hannibal really know? Hannibal wasn't about to show his hand - he'd only coax lies out of the general if he did, and put him on guard. Better to play dumb, and to only give him what he already knew. "We got a phone call from Face, in duress." Stockwell could, undoubtedly, confirm that. The phones were bugged, after all. "We went prepared for the ambush. Face wasn't there. Curtis was."

"And he was," Stockwell smiled, "better preserved than he is now, I take it?"

"If you're looking for a confession, you're not going to get it. I didn't kill him."

Stockwell chuckled. "What have I to gain from a confession, Colonel? Josh Curtis has been dead for nearly six months. Even if I wanted to press charges on you, how would I go about it?"

Especially since _Hannibal_ had been dead for nearly six months. It would be a fascinating story to tell a court martial - the way Stockwell had played this all along. The thought almost amused Hannibal. But he didn't answer, giving him nothing.

Stockwell let the silence linger for a moment before continuing. "Besides, if you _did _talk to Curtis, surely you realize that I had no great love for him."

"Enough to help him fake his death," Hannibal pointed out. "And thereby escape the consequences of that arms shipment you so rudely interrupted by sending terrorists onto that plane. And by the way -" Stockwell was smiling again, like the cat that ate the canary, so proud of himself and yet well aware of his guilt. If he knew Hannibal was the one fishing now, he didn't show it. "- how _did _you pull that off? Those men were for real; they weren't your agents. You put a lot of innocent lives at risk. People who had nothing to do with this little game of yours."

"I suppose it's a good thing that you're as good as I thought you were."

Hannibal stared at him coldly. "If we hadn't taken the mission, all of those people would have died."

"There was never any doubt in my mind that you would take the mission, Colonel."

The confidence was sickening, and probably intended to goad him. Hannibal didn't give him that, only stared back impassively. The silence lingered for a few long, uncomfortable moments before the phone rang. Stockwell answered, conveyed his thanks to the caller, then used the remote to turn on the small screen against the wall. As it came to life, it was bearing a picture of a young Josh Curtis, very much the way Hannibal remembered him from years before.

"Captain Josh Curtis," Stockwell began. "Served two tours in 'Nam as a helicopter pilot before somebody," Stockwell looked pointedly at Hannibal, "sabotaged his career. At least, he felt that way. He was resigned to a desk job by direction of General Westman, and became an assistant to Colonel Morrison."

"I didn't sabotage his career," Hannibal corrected, firmly. Not that he felt the need to justify himself to Stockwell, who probably didn't care anyway. But the more Hannibal could keep him engaged, the less he could rely on his practiced lines. "He did that all by himself when he left me and my team for dead in a bomb crater in Laos. Against his orders."

"Well, needless to say, he bore some grudge." Stockwell paused, then continued his explanation. "I suspect his illegal trading began in Vietnam, quite possibly under the direction of Colonel Morrison who - as we all know - was not the most upstanding character. After the shelling, he disappeared off the face of the earth and was presumed dead, listed MIA. He showed up several years later in Madrid with this man," the picture on the screen changed, "Antony Rodriguez." On the screen, Curtis was shaking hands with a dark haired man. The next few slides showed them conversing.

"Who took the pictures?" Hannibal asked.

"An operative for the Spanish government. I got them through Interpol while doing my own investigation on Curtis. After he approached me about you."

"He approached you?" Hannibal challenged. "Somehow I find that hard to believe."

Stockwell smiled. "Actually, it's true. I'd been watching you for some time and debating the best way to get your attention. But I lacked bait. Needless to say, I found Curtis' proposal... intriguing."

"What was his proposal?"

"Curtis was always under the impression that I was driven by a patriotic need to bring you to justice."

"An impression you did nothing to foster, I'm sure."

"It served my purpose. In any case, he was confident that if you found out that he was alive, you would come looking for him."

"So he give you us. What did you give him?"

"He was beginning to run into trouble with various governments. He wanted me to make his problems go away."

"He meant a pardon. _You _meant a change of identity."

"I never promised him a pardon. In fact, I never promised him anything. I merely said I would take it into consideration. Following our discussion, he went back to Spain and I began conducting my research to determine if he was, in fact, useful to me. And to what extent."

"So after the trial, he was pretty upset with you."

"Particularly when he realized that the reward offered for your arrest was through the Army - nt me."

"So you sent him away with a new name and told him to have a great life."

"Actually, I told him not to get himself into trouble again. Because if he did, there was never any provision for my helping him a second time. And faking one's death, as you so aptly put it - _is _a federal offense."

Hannibal sighed. "You know, I gotta hand it to you, Stockwell. Your ability to work both ends against the middle is impressive."

"Thank you, Colonel. I'll take that as a compliment."

"But it backfired on you, didn't it? You never thought he'd be so hell bent on revenge that he'd come back here and risk his freedom for it."

Hannibal watched him carefully, waiting to see if he'd rise to the bait. After a moment, he smiled. "Actually, the thought did cross my mind."

"Good," Hannibal said flatly. "I was starting to think you were going to try to dance around the part that I _really _want to know. What has he been up to _since_ the trial?"

Stockwell hesitated. "I haven't been monitoring him very closely. I haven't had reason to."

"But you still know where to find him."

Another pause. "Once he'd served his purpose, I had no further interest in him. I can tell you that he moved his gun running business to the Spanish-speaking countries of South and Central America. So far he has -" Stockwell paused, and smiled as he corrected, "had - attracted little attention to himself. He had a new partner," the screen changed again, "one Jose Lopez, who is also into cocaine smuggling. They met in Argentina, three months ago."

"I want a copy of that photo."

"Certainly. Carla is on her way now with a hard copy of everything I have."

"There were at least three men besides Curtis that we shot it out with in that ambush. One of them might have been Lopez. Who were the other two?"

"What did they look like?"

"They wore masks."

"Height? Weight?"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you fishing for, Stockwell?" Hannibal knew what he was fishing for. Stockwell was too good not to recognize when he was being played. He knew something was up, he just didn't know what. He was trying to catch Hannibal in a lie.

"At least two of Lopez' four brothers are involved in his operation," Stockwell answered, ignoring the question. "It could have been them."

"Do you have their pictures?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Though if they wear masks, Colonel, what good would it do you?"

Hannibal scowled. "Look, Stockwell, unlike you, I have no hidden motive or interest to protect. All I want is my Lieutenant. And Curtis is holding him somewhere. Now why in the _hell _would I withhold any information from you when it's going to take everything that both of us know to get him back safely?"

"There is the little matter of where he was when he was abducted."

A direct question. Stockwell looked him straight in the eye as he asked it. Hannibal stared back, not flinching. _Give him what he wants..._ "He was in a motel."

"What was he doing there?"

"He was with a prostitute." Hannibal allowed the anger to creep into his voice, measuring it carefully. "If I had to guess, I'd say he was fucking her senseless. Unfortunately, I can't tell you which positions they used; he wasn't quite that forthcoming with his explanation."

Hannibal waited. After a moment, Stockwell lowered his eyes. Hannibal breathed an internal sigh of relief. It was just the right amount of anger in just the right way. He knew by the look on Stockwell's face that he'd bought it.

"You know, Stockwell, if any one of us wanted to run, we would've done it a longtime ago. So if there's any thought in your mind that Lieutenant Peck just wandered away from the camp, you'd better take a good hard look at his track record. He might feel no allegiance you to. And he might not trust you or believe one goddamn word about those pardons you say you can secure. But I know my lieutenant. And loyalty to his team has _never _been his problem."

Stockwell studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Point taken."

"Where does Curtis stay when he's in the States?"

"I don't know."

Hannibal glared. "Like hell, you don't."

"I told you, I no longer conduct my own surveillance of him. He is of no interest to me."

"Give me something I can use, Stockwell."

"I've given you the name of his closest associate. What more do you want?"

"An address. A place to start looking."

Stockwell smiled, and looked up as Carla entered the room, carrying with her a manila folder. "Well, I'm very sorry, Colonel," the general said, sitting up a little straighter. "I can't give you that."


	35. Chapter Thirty Four

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR**

Tapping into Stockwell's radio communication system was no child's play. Even after he found the frequency - which could change in a moment's notice - he had to descramble it. And after he did that, he would still have to consult a list of code phrases a half mile long to figure out what on earth the man was talking about. BA had been compiling that list since day one, and filling in the blanks as he figured out the meanings for the codes.

He doubted Stockwell was aware of it, though he probably should have been. BA was a prodigy of Special Forces commo school with plenty of time and money on his hands. Most of the technology he employed was still tricky to find even on the black market, and he'd had it for years. Stockwell's coded, scrambled radio messages with their ever-changing frequencies provided a challenge, to be sure. But it wasn't half the challenge the general probably imagined it was. Not for BA.

Unfortunately, the time/payoff ratio was usually not worth it. BA had a whole spiral notebook of transcribed radio communications, but most of them bore no interest. Stockwell had dozens of operatives in the field at any given time, and most of them were not even interesting, much less a threat. BA monitored the radios when he was bored. It never hurt to have the information. But most of it would be useless to them.

As the side door of the van opened, BA looked up. He briefly locked gazes with Frankie, who gave him a thumbs up. "Ready to go," Frankie declared with a broad smile.

"Did you get Carla's car too?" BA asked. "She here too. They could just take her car."

"Not with a nail in the tire," Frankie said smoothly. He heaved a car battery into the back of the van. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"That the one from Stockwell's car?"

Frankie rolled his eyes. "Well, if it was the one you gave me to put _into _Stockwell's car, why would I be asking you what to do with it?"

BA scowled at the sarcasm. "Just leave it there," he ordered. "We'll get rid of it later."

Frankie smirked as he climbed into the back of the van. "Careless guy, leaving his lights on like that..."

It wouldn't buy them much time. Carla's car, even with the flat tire, would still provide a jump. And the combination of coincidences may well look suspicious. But they needed to stall him for long enough to go pick up Face and Murdock. And if everything worked out in this characteristically insane plan of Hannibal's there would be no way Stockwell could actually _prove _anything in the end.

With one side of the headphones locked on Stockwell's radio and the other monitoring the house phone - in the unlikely event that Stockwell decided to use that - BA sat quiet and waited.

"We all set on your end?" Frankie asked.

"Yeah," BA said confidently. "Soon as he talks to anyone, I'll know about it."

It was only a few minutes later that Hannibal climbed into the driver's seat of the van, closing the door hard behind him. "We all set, BA?"

"We set."

Hannibal turned over the ignition. "Anyone going to follow us?"

Frankie smiled. "Not 'til Stockwell finds them and unties them." That had been the first order of business upon arriving. That was the part - ironically - that shouldn't look suspicious. It was almost standard practice now.

"I meant the cars," Hannibal clarified, pulling away quickly.

"Oh. No. It's all good."

They hadn't even made it out of the driveway before Stockwell was on the radio. "Empress One to Abel Six, what's your position?"

The reply was almost immediate. "Abel Six, the sun is out and I'm waiting for the eclipse." BA checked his list. Assassination attempt, of some kind. That was an "eclipse." Not what he was looking for. Stockwell was looking for available agents.

"Empress One to Abel Thirteen, what's your position?"

"Abel Thirteen, Bluebird is in the nest and we're sitting on the eggs."

BA had no idea who Bluebird was, but Stockwell had been watching him for a while.

"Empress One, standby Abel Thirteen. Abel Four, say position."

BA used the moment of silence to relay. "You were right, Hannibal. Sounds like he's calling for reinforcements."

"Well, you didn't think he was going to go out there _alone_, did you?"

"What makes you so sure Curtis would still be using a house that Stockwell got for him?" Frankie asked. "I mean, the two of them weren't exactly buddies..."

"I'm not," Hannibal answered, glancing both ways at an upcoming intersection before blowing through the stop sign. "The point is that Stockwell wanted to know where to find him. And I guarantee you, Stockwell knew where to find him."

"Abel Thirteen, Abel Four, switch to channel 1-2-1 scrambled."

BA followed the order in perfect time with the two agents. A moment later, Stockwell's voice came over again, checking the channel and then reporting, "Winter Snow has gone to ground."

BA recognized the codename immediately. He'd heard it before. "Frankie, get over here!"

The response was immediate. BA shoved a spiral notebook full of radio transcriptions at the man. "Look in there for anything that says White Snow."

"You got it."

Stockwell continued. "Cain Two may be in the nest, alone or with a babysitter."

"Abel Thirteen, copy Empress. ETA twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes, Hannibal," BA called. Or less, depending on how close the others were. BA still didn't have that one vital piece of information. And if he didn't get it, he was going to have to try and triangulate the position of Thirteen or Four's radios. That would take time, and time was the one thing they didn't have. BA held his breath, waiting.

"Abel Four, need coordinates. Over?"

BA smiled, and scribbled down the numbers as they were recited. Then all he'd have to do is look on a map. So much easier than trying to pin down the radio position...

"I'll meet you there in thirty minutes," Stockwell said. "When you arrive, stand by and do not engage. Repeat, do not engage."

*X*X*X*

Face was out the door and down the steps the instant that he saw the van at the end of the driveway. When it stopped, it was only long enough for BA and Hannibal to switch seats and Face and Murdock to jump in the back. They were off again, tires ripping up the dirt driveway, before the doors were even shut.

"What'd you find out?" Face asked.

Hannibal turned around in the passenger seat. "Stockwell didn't tell me any more than I thought he would, _but_," he smiled, "I was able to buy us enough time for BA to get a fix on his radio frequency. And he is on his way to meet his two agents at the location where he thinks you might me."

Face stared. "Why didn't he just tell you where to -" He cut off before he finished the question. It was a stupid question anyways. He didn't tell them simply because he was Stockwell. "Right," Face sighed.

"So we've got to get there first," Hannibal explained. "Stockwell knows something is up. He's just not sure what. But as long as you're there and Jessica's not, he won't be able to _prove _a damn thing."

Face frowned deeply. "How do you know Curtis would be keeping her there?"

"Well, we can't be sure. But it says something that Stockwell and I had the very same idea. And I do believe that Stockwell knows where to find Curtis."

Suddenly, Frankie leaned forward between the two back seats with BA's spiral notebook in hand. "Alright, I know we're just fishing here, but everything you've got written down in this mumbo jumbo book says Winter Snow is a South American cocaine smuggler who speaks Spanish and English fluently." He glanced up. "I don't see the connection."

Face saw it. "The guy who led me into the house was Hispanic."

Hannibal handed back a photo. "This the guy?"

Face took it, glanced at it, and nodded without hesitation. "Yeah, that's him."

"Curtis' partner. So I was half right." Hannibal shrugged.

"Which half?" Face asked uncertainly.

"The part about Stockwell knowing where to look. Luckily, that's the part that really matters." He paused briefly. "Guys, check the guns. We need to keep this low key if we're going to make Stockwell believe that we were never here. But White Snow, AKA Jose Lopez, has at least two brothers in on this operation with him."

"The other two guys who jumped me at the hotel," Face guessed.

"Probably." Hannibal paused for long enough to light his cigar. "This has got to be quick and quiet. I want them to know they're outgunned before they even think of fighting back. Frankie, I'm going to need you to distract Stockwell's agents when they show up. They may already be there. And don't let them see you."

"Piece of cake," Frankie grinned.

"BA, I want you to keep the van running. Murdock, Face, you're coming with me." He glanced at Face. "Assuming Jessica is there, we'll be switching her for you."

"Great," Face answered dryly. "Just one question, Hannibal; assuming there are guards in there, how are we going to get them to go along with this plan?"

Hannibal smiled around his unlit cigar. "You just go get your girlfriend. Let me worry about them."

*X*X*X*

The knock on the back door came just seconds before it was broken in. Startled, two men were on their feet instantly. They reached for weapons, but were quickly deterred by the AK-47s pointed straight at their chests. Perhaps more than that, the amount of weaponry - guns, grenades, extra belts of ammo - was very theatrical and eye catching. Hannibal and Murdock looked ready to film an action scene in a war movie... except the ammunition in their guns was live.

"_Donde esta su hermano_?" Murdock asked with a glare, picking one of the men to stare in the eye as he demanded to know the whereabouts of his brother.

Wide eyed, the younger man shook his head, hands slightly raised. "_No. No se..._"

Hannibal didn't have to know the language to know what that meant. Nor did he need a dictionary to figure out that the long string of Spanish that answered him probably included a serious threat and probably a few expletives.

"You speak English?" Hannibal demanded as the two men stared at them in wide eyed horror.

"Y-yes...?"

"Good. Then make your answers nice and clear." He stepped forward. Murdock kept pace with him until they were standing toe to toe with their targets. Still well aware that they hadn't located the third man, he kept a careful eye on his surroundings. But his attention seemed entirely focused on the man he was stalking toward. Hannibal decided to test the waters. Instead of pressing the barrel of the weapon to his chest, he shoved it under the chin of the second man. "Either you're going to tell me where your brother is or you're going to be wearing _this _brother's brain matter."

"_Y no dime que no sabes_," Murdock growled, another threat punctuated by the aim of his weapon at helpless man's gut.

Murdock hissed a few more words in the unfamiliar language, and Hannibal watched the guy break. It was like the flip of a switch - the determination that the secret simply wasn't worth the risk. "He went for Señor Curtis," the man stammered. "To see what was taking him so long."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed into slits. "Señor Curtis won't be coming back. I doubt you'll ever even find his body."

"Please." The man under the gun seemed just as terrified. "What do you want? Money? Drugs? We can pay you."

It was nice to get such willing cooperation. "I want the girl."

"She is upstairs."

Perfect. Not even a token resistance.

Face was heading up the stairs in an instant. Hannibal watched him go out of the corner of his eye. "Alright, _amigo_, this is how it's going to work," he said low. "You two are going to put your hands behind your head and come with us, nice and slow. You follow instructions and nobody gets hurt. You don't, and Jose won't be able to find _your _bodies, either."


	36. Chapter Thirty Five

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**

"Jessica?"

He was checking rooms. So far, no sign of her. Hurried, but not enough to panic, he pushed open another bedroom door just seconds after sweeping the first.

"Face?"

He stopped cold as he heard her voice call his name, and spun around in the hallway, trying to figure out which direction it had come from. "Jess! Where are you!"

"I'm up here! I'm in the attic!"

Attic. Face looked up. On the other end of the hall was a pull string for the attic opening. He took three quick strides toward it, pulled the hatch open, and unfolded the ladder. Without even checking it, he scrambled up into the darkness.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The dust and cobwebs clung to the few scattered pieces of old furniture, and the only light came from a small window on the west wall, letting in the light from the sunset. He scanned quickly for her as he pulled himself up. The sound of his name in her voice immediately directed his attention, and his head swiveled. She was there - hanging from one of the rafters with her feet barely touching the floor. "Jess..."

He was scrambling towards her before he'd even found his footing, stumbling along the way. He left the gun on the attic floor along the way, grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her hard. He quickly pulled away. "Are you hurt?" His eyes were raking her, searching for signs of abuse. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. There were tears in her eyes, reflecting in the dim light. But she appeared unharmed. Except, of course, for the position - which was probably straining both her arms and her legs quite a bit. "I'm okay."

His attention turned to the handcuffs on her chaffed wrists. Her hands were swollen from the poor circulation. Her feet were barely touching the ground. "Jess, I need you to give me as much slack on the cuffs as you can, okay?" he said quickly, reaching into his pocket for his lock picks. "I know you can't give a lot, but I don't want you to fall when this loosens. Alright? Can you do that?"

He was already working on the lock by the time she obeyed, without question. It took longer than he would've liked. Every second that passed made him feel more and more like he was holding a live grenade, just waiting for it to go off. True, it probably wouldn't be life or death if Stockwell showed up. But after all of this, and with everything going so well, it would be a damn shame.

"We have to do this fast," he whispered, eyes focused in on the lock above his head. It was an awkward angle, to be sure. "There's still a good chance we can still get you out of this without Stockwell knowing."

"Are you kidding?" The surprise in her voice was evident. Whether that the possibility still existed, or that it would still be a consideration, he didn't know.

"You don't know Stockwell," he said, taking a guess at which of the two it was. "Baby, we've gone through a _lot _of trouble to make this look legit and I need you to work with me now."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. The confusion was still etched in her face, deep in her eyes. "Anything," she finally offered. "Anything you want me to do..."

The cuff broke free and her arms dropped to her sides as she collapsed into him. He hugged her back, but only briefly before he pushed her away, steadying her before grabbing her other wrist. "Stockwell," he raced as he went to work on the second cuff, "needs to believe that they only kidnapped _me_ and not you."

"What?"

"He doesn't know anything about what's going on here and we're going to try and keep it that way."

This one was easier. Less of an awkward angle. "He is on his way here," he continued as he worked. "To rescue _me_." He glanced up at her just briefly to see how she was taking it. She was worried. She wasn't panicking. "You need to be gone by the time he gets here. You'll need to go out the back door, and go over the fence into the neighbor's yard right behind us. It's a chain link fence, it shouldn't be hard to get over."

"What about you?"

The second cuff fell off of her wrist, and she immediately rubbed her hands together, bringing back the circulation. Taking the handcuffs with him, he crossed a few steps, grabbed the gun, and raced to the far corner of the room, propping it behind an antique, faded dresser. It was out of sight, and hopefully Stockwell wouldn't think to look around for it. Even if he did, it was a standard, black market AK-47 - the kind Columbian drug runners would be more than likely to have.

Face returned quickly to Jessica. "What I need you to do," he looked her straight in the eye and held up the cuffs between their locked stares, "is take these cuffs, and put them on me."

"What?"

"I need you to make me look like a prisoner, Jess. And then I need you to leave me here." He was already clasping one of the cuffs over his right wrist. "If you go out to the street through the neighbor's yard, you'll see the van."

"Just... leave you here?"

Her uncertainty was paralyzing. He understood; it was all too much too fast. But he had to break through to her, and he didn't have much time to do it. He used his free hand to grab the back of her head and kiss her again, lips crushing hers. As he pulled away after only a few seconds, he held the side of her face.

"Trust me, Jess," he whispered pleadingly. "I need you to trust me. I need you to do this for me. There's no time to explain."

Mutely, she nodded.

He stepped under the rafter and reached up to grab it. Unlike her, his feet touched the ground easily. He didn't need to stand as straight as she had. He did anyways, to give some slack on the cuffs as he pushed the unfastened side over the top of the rafter. She winced as she lifted her arms - clearly, it was painful - and he slid his hand into the metal bracelet as she pressed it closed.

"Is that too tight?"

"It's fine." He tested it to make sure it was secure, and watched as both her arms and her tiptoe stance fell. She winced again.

"There's a radio in my jacket pocket," he whispered. "You can talk to Hannibal."

She reached into his pocket and found the small black device. "Do I have to do anything to make it work?"

"Just press the button on the side to talk."

She stepped back slowly. She probably would've turned away if he hadn't caught her gaze just right. He watched the emotions play through her eyes like scenes on a movie screen. Fear, uncertainty - a flicker of panic, but not too much. Trust, and yet anguish. She didn't want to leave him here to take her place. Especially when she didn't understand this plan. What if it backfired? She was leaving him helpless, and the thought scared her a hell of a lot more than it scared him. He knew his team was a block away, and in control. She didn't have that kind of confidence in them, and she wasn't even sure she had it in him. That kind of trust was only born through years of experience.

"Go," he whispered. "It's okay."

Still full of uncertainty and reluctance, and unsteady on her feet, she stumbled toward the hole in the attic floor. She wasn't moving fast enough down the ladder, and it wasn't just because of the weakness in her legs and arms. She was still hesitating. Still unsure. And if she didn't push past that, she wasn't going to make it. Damn it...

"Hey, Jess?" She looked back, worried, and he let a smile cross his face - perfectly practiced and full of cunning charm. "I like the handcuffs. Next time we'll try it when we've got a little more time to kill, hmm?"

She stared, dumbfounded, and he winked at her. After a moment of hesitation she smiled back - a genuine, reassured smile. "Go on," he whispered, nodding to her. "It'll be alright." A moment later, she disappeared down the steps and out of sight.

He let the smile fall immediately and dropped his head back, eyes closed. Damn it, he was tired. The adrenaline ebbed and faded - the same as it had been doing all day - and it was wearing him out more quickly than he would've liked. Of course, that probably worked to his advantage. He was supposed to have been here all day, after all. He damn well _should _be a little strung out.

He breathed slow, deep, and waited. Stockwell was coming out here personally. He rarely did things personally. Face wasn't exactly sure to expect. Until he knew, he was prepared for anything. Stockwell had no reason to harm him, but if not for the fact that he was more useful to him alive than dead, he certainly wouldn't have put it past him.

He wondered if she was outside yet. He wanted her out of here. He wanted her as far away from here as she could get, as quickly as she could get there.

"Face?"

His head snapped forward, eyes opening wide. The ladder was still down, light pouring into the attic from below. She was standing on it. "Hannibal says he's here and that I need to find a place to hide." _God damn it..._ "It's at least dark up here, so I figured -"

"Get behind the dresser." Face nodded towards it quickly. "Turn the radio off. And no matter what happens, stay down! Someone will come for you."

*X*X*X*

The sight that greeted Stockwell was not unexpected. Then again, not much would have surprised him. The lieutenant was hanging from the rafter in the attic, waiting for him as he climbed up the steps.

"What took you so long?" Peck demanded.

Stockwell eyed him up and down. He was unharmed. Hanging from his wrists, his hands should have been swollen. They weren't. But his feet did just barely touch the ground. If he stood on his toes, he might have kept the pressure off of his wrists.

"You seem relatively unharmed."

"Relatively unharmed?" Peck's voice was full of disbelief. "That's all you can say? Ya know, I don't know what's going on here, but I would be willing to bet it's got your fingerprints all over it. I'm not even surprised that it's you walking in and not my team."

Stockwell remained still, staring at him. "I will remind you, Lieutenant, that none of this would have happened if you hadn't been sneaking out at night."

"Or if people stayed dead when you killed them," Peck shot back.

Stockwell hesitated for a long moment. "I assume, by that, you mean Josh Curtis."

Peck only glared back at him.

"I assure you that I had nothing to do with the car accident that -"

"Spare me," Face interrupted. He glanced up at his hands. "You want to get me out of this? It's not the most comfortable position to be standing in."

Stockwell used his radio to call for assistance in unfastening Peck from the rafter. While they were waiting for a response, he had a number of questions he needed answered.

"Colonel Smith made mention of a prostitute you were meeting?"

Peck eyed him carefully, wary of the interrogation and, most likely, his position in it. "I wouldn't call her a prostitute. More of a... call girl. Sophisticated, beautiful. Slightly different class from a street corner girl."

"One wouldn't be able to tell by your choice in hotel rooms."

Peck shrugged as much as he was able with his hands locked above his head. "Cheaper hotels are more anonymous." That, at least, was the honest-to-God truth.

Stockwell paced a few steps away from him, looking over the room. He kept one eye on the lieutenant, but nothing about his demeanor changed in the least. "Abel Seven made some mention that you'd seemed distracted lately. I don't suppose this call girl has anything to do with that?"

"Hate to tell you this, Stockwell, but Able Seven was apparently easily forgettable. Which one was she?"

Stockwell turned back and looked straight at him. "Not terribly easy to forget, I would hope. The two of you nearly got yourselves arrested for indecent exposure just last week. And I can't imagine that was her doing."

"Ah, yes. Andrea. She was less forgettable than most."

Stockwell stared at him, less than amused. But he had no more time to ask questions before the footsteps behind him made him turn. Abel Nine and Abel Four took one look around and then moved to Peck. Within a few minutes, he was free. He winced as he flexed his hands, and rubbed at his arms. But he was not nearly in as much pain as he should have been for being held that way for so long.

"I get the distinct impression that you are hiding something from me."

He looked up and caught Stockwell's gaze, then looked back down at his hands as he tried to massage the circulation back into them. "I'm hiding a lot of things from you, Stockwell. You own my services, not my private thoughts." He looked up with a smile. "Though you're more than welcome to send some more company into my bed to try and get me to open up."

Stockwell studied him for a long moment. Finally, he turned away. The pieces didn't line up, but at this particular moment, there was nothing he could prove. He would find out what the lieutenant was hiding. But until then, he would bide his time.


	37. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Face was absolutely exhausted. The day had been draining from the moment he'd opened his eyes, and he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. It had been more than worth it; he didn't regret those hours awake with Jessica in the least. But as the adrenaline wore down, he found himself actually _glad _to be returning to their finely furnished prison on Stockwell's grounds. He showered - thank God for hot showers - and vaguely wondered where everyone was on his way to his room. He'd let them deal with Stockwell. And vice versa. They would also take Jess to the airport.

He frowned at that. Damn it, he didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to her, to make sure she was really alright. He'd only had a few seconds at the house. She hadn't looked injured. He'd have to call her soon. As soon as he slept. How was he going to get out of the house? With a towel around his waist and a hand running through his still-damp hair, thoughts racing and fragmented, he opened the door to his room.

He froze as his eyes immediately locked on the one thing he had not expected to see, standing in the center of his bedroom.

"Jess?"

He shut the door quickly behind him, a new burst of adrenaline replacing the old.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in? There's cameras everywhere! He -"

"Hannibal brought me in."

Face had nothing to say to that. If Hannibal had brought her in, she was safe. He wouldn't put her in any danger - especially not when they'd just gone to such lengths to make sure Stockwell couldn't prove her involvement.

Taking a few steps closer to her, Face set his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of his own shirt that she'd wrapped herself in.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "Really?"

She nodded, and slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders, holding him for a moment before she circled her arms around his neck. He pulled her in closer, eyes sliding closed at the feel of her warmth. Her body fit against his perfectly, just the way it always did. As he moved his hands up her back, she turned to nuzzle her face into his neck, breathing in deep, as if she was trying to memorize how he smelled.

"I need you."

It was instinct to respond to her. Anything she needed, he was more than happy to give. He turned and kissed her temple lightly. "I'm right here."

Watching her quietly, he let his fingers stroke along her back and shoulders. He'd been more worried about her than he remembered being worried about anything in a long time. Seeing her safe - seeing her _here_, of all places - filled him with mixed feelings.

The emotions in her eyes were chaotic as she pulled away just enough to look up at him. Need, confusion, energy, worry. They way she was looking at him, it was as if she was looking into him. "Are _you _okay?"

"I'm okay."

"You're _really _okay? Or you're saying that because you know I need to hear it?"

He gave a slight smile as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I'm really okay, Jess. But you shouldn't be here."

"I had to see you before I left. I had to know..."

His fingers moved to her lips, tracing them lightly. "I'm glad you're here. Even if you shouldn't be."

A knock on the door. Murdock, by the pattern. Face turned and looked over his shoulder. "Come in."

Murdock wasn't at all surprised to see Jessica. He didn't even acknowledge her as he poked his head inside. "Briefing tomorrow morning at eight a.m. Hannibal just got the file."

"Thanks."

"Night."

He closed the door behind him as he disappeared and Face turned back to the woman in his arms. She watched him for a moment, then pulled away slowly and walked to the bed, sitting on the edge of it with her arms crossed over her chest.

"So, uh... Who's Andrea?"

Face turned and locked the door - just in case - before heading back to the bed. "She's one of Stockwell's women," he answered simply.

Jessica frowned. "What does that mean?"

Face sat down next to her. "She's sort of like a jail warden. But pretty. And slightly more subtle." He paused and watched Jess as he sat down next to her. "Stockwell figured out pretty quickly that cameras and listening devices didn't work to keep us under control. He got the brilliant idea that we were much easier to watch if he used women."

"What did you do with the pretty warden that nearly got you arrested for indecent exposure?"

The first hints of jealousy made him smile. She kept her eyes down as he reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Went swimming in the park fountain. In our underwear."

She gave him a sideways glance, but said nothing.

"Jessie, are you jealous?" he teased lightly.

"No," she answered immediately.

Lie. He could see it all over her face. And as she sighed and lowered her head, he knew she realized she wasn't fooling anyone.

"Yes," she finally admitted softly.

His smile softened as he stroked the side of her face lightly, then dropped his hand into his lap. "Jessie, you have no reason to be jealous. I said she was pretty." He leaned towards her and kissed her temple before he whispered in her ear. "And so is a nice car."

"Nice car, huh?" She looked up. "And what am I?"

"You're not a car." He smiled. "You're the driver."

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned her head away, letting her hair fall as a curtain between them again. Face sighed.

"Jess, there's a half dozen girls he rotates through on a regular basis. I don't give a damn about any of them."

"How many of the half dozen have you slept with?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. It's a real question."

"A patronizing one."

"Jessie..." He pulled her hair back gently again, so he could see her face. "You know me."

"Yes, I do. That's why I want you to admit it?"

"Admit what? That I sleep with them? Of course I do. And you already know that."

She closed her eyes for a long moment. Her voice was a little shaky when she continued. "Why?"

"Because he knows me, too. Or, at least, a lot more about me than he should. It's expected and it keeps him off my back."

She hesitated, then finally looked up at him. "That sounds like a hell of an excuse."

"Excuse?" He chuckled, shaking his head, and moved further up onto the bed, back against the headboard as he relaxed comfortably. "Look, Jess. Sex is a tool at best and a weapon at worst. You are the only exception to that, in my entire life. And if you don't at least know _that _much about me, I'm not going to be able to say anything to make you feel better."

"Is it just about making me feel better?"

"Yes. It is. Because to me, the whole thing is a non-issue."

Her eyes searched him, but she was quiet for a long moment. "And you're not going to stop."

"If it bothers you that much, I'll do my best to avoid it, but no. As far as I'm concerned, it's part of the job, living here. Because if I close this door on Stockwell, he'll go looking for another one. And the one thing I _don't _want is for him to eventually end up on your doorstep."

She watched him. He didn't move, didn't look away. Finally, she shook her head. "I'm crazy for believing you."

He smiled back at her. "You know me. If you didn't, I couldn't explain it to you. And I wouldn't try."

She didn't return the smile. He felt something inside of him stir as he watched her. She was safe, and she was here, of all places. All the fear and worry and stress that built layer upon layer was melting away just with the knowledge that she was here with him.

She was silent, staring at him. Finally, she turned and crawled closer to him. Dressed only in his shirt - oversized and falling just past her hips - she straddled his legs and put her hands on his shoulders. It suddenly occurred to him that if she'd had any thoughts of getting angry over the women, she wouldn't have been waiting for him dressed this way. He smiled. She really _did _know him. She just wanted it out in the open.

Her kiss was slow and deep, and filled with emotion he felt only for her. Need and intimacy, vulnerability and protective instinct - all at once. His hands gravitated toward her, like opposite ends of a magnet, feeling lightly along her skin as her nails dug into his shoulders.

"Jessie?"

With a very feminine noise that was part sigh, part gasp, she withdrew from the kiss and reached down to slip her hands into the towel around his waist.

"I love you."


End file.
